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V 


The Daughters of SUFFOLK 


By the same Author 

GRAYSTONE 
A DREAMER IN PARIS 
BRUNHILDA OF ORRS ISLAND 





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'The Daughters of 
SUFFOLK 


By William Jasper Nicolls 


With Twenty-four Illustrations ' 



PHILADELPHIA Gf LONDON 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 


Published May, 1910 



Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company 
The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U.S.A. 




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1 


Table of CONTENTS 


I 

PART FIRST 

Jane 


j j 

II 

Christmas Eve 

<< 

23 

III 

A Lovers’ Quarrel . 


38 

IV 

The Minstrel 

<< 

53 

V 

Christmas Morning 

<< 

61 

VI 

Lord of Misrule .... 


71 

VII 

A Rescue 

it 

88 

VIII 

Married . 

i ( 

99 

IX 

PART SECOND 

Marie 

f * 

113 

X 

Jacques 

ft 

124 

XI 

Forebodings 

tt 

135 

XII 

Resolution 

<( 

H 3 

XIII 

High Midnight .... 

( < 

J52 

XIV 

The Flight ^ . 

<f 

167 

XV 

Martin, the Slave 

f € 

180 

XVI 

PART THIRD 

Edward the King .... 

it 

197 

XVII 

Master Cheke 

it 

209 

XVIII 

Plotting 

it 

222 


V 


XIX Farewell — Bradgate Page 232 


XX The Conspiracy “ 243 

XXI Jane’s Wedding “ 247 

XXII A King’s Will ...... “ 264 

XXIII Friar Grouche “ 268 

XXIV Jane the Queen ** 277 

PART FOURTH 

XXV Bloody Mary ** 291 

XXVI The Virgin Queen “ 307 

XXVII Homerus “319 

XXVIII Until Death “326 


List of ILLUSTRATIONS 


Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolk . 

Roger Ascham 

A Horn Book 

John Aylmer 

Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset . 

Guilford Dudley 

William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke . 

Mary Tudor 

John Hey wood 

Wilton: Seat of the Earl of Pembroke . 

A Running Footman 

“ On the Road to London ” . 

King Edward the Sixth 

John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland . 

Sir John Cheke 

Katharine of Aragon 

Anne Boleyn , . 

Elizabeth 

Jane the Queen 

Hampton Court Palace. Entrance . 

Mary the First 

“The Most Damnable Murder’’ 

Somerset House 

The Tower of London 


Frontispiece 
. . Page 


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€€ 

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32^ 
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64^ 
76^ 
86 -i- 
102 ^ 
1 16 ^ 
132 ^ 

154^ 

184^ 

192 ^ 

198 - 

206 

210 

224^ 

244-- 

262 ' 

zyS 

286 L- 

296 *■ ' 

306 

316 

332 


Vll 



PART FIRST 







I. 

JANE 


ULLEN and lowering 
closed the 24th day of 
December, in the year 
1551, at Bradgate, in the 
heart of Leicestershire. 
The ivies and mistletoe 
hung in festoons and bunches, in the great hall 
of Henry Grey. 

Jahe, his eldest daughter, a sweet-faced girl 
of scarce sixteen summers, sat in the alcove of 
a broad window-seat, overlooking an extensive 
view of undulating pasture-land. In the mas- 
sive chimney a few large logs gleamed with a 
red heat in the ashes of an expired flame. It 
was a time and circumstance she liked the best; 
for she was alone, and the rest of the household 
were afield, hunting. 

Not a sound disturbed the silence of the room, 
save an occasional hiss and splutter of the logs 
as they shrank and hardened into coal black 

II 



The Daughters 


pieces. Motionless, as if in a trance, she sat, 
her slender body bent forward, her hands half 
clasped over a book in her lap, her young and 
beautiful profile sharply outlined against the 
thin lace curtains that covered the window. 

This lovely child, with the manners and 
repose of a cultured lady, was gowned in a robe 
of green velvet — so low in the neck as to scarce 
conceal the lines of budding womanhood. The 
sleeves, exquisitely embroidered with white and 
silver threads, reached only to her elbows, but 
under them an inner sleeve of filmy white stuff, 
encircled her soft round arms. Her wealth of 
hair, plaited and caught up to the nape of her 
neck, was tied with a knot of red ribbon; it con- 
tained a sprig of holly, as did also the flaring 
front of her corsage. Save a necklace of beads, 
wound twice around her firm, white neck, no 
other ornament adorned her charming person. 

As she gazed, with a fixed and enraptured 
vision, through the window, across the wintry 
landscape, and to the lowering sky beyond, her 
lips parted involuntarily, disclosing twin rows 
of even white teeth. A half smile hovered for 
an instant in the dimples of her cheeks, and 


12 


of Suffolk 


then was lost in the returning sadness that 
habitually lurked in her large and serious eyes. 

‘^Aylmer/’ she exclaimed, with a sudden 
brightening, as her eye rested on a horseman 
who was riding towards the house, across the 
open pasture, — ‘'and I have read but one chap- 
ter of my Platonis.” She picked up the book 
lying in her lap, and began to read aloud, in 
Greek: “For to fear death, my friends, is only 
to think ourselves wise, without being wise: 
for it is to think that we know what we do not 
know. For anything that men can tell, death 
may be the greatest good that can happen to 
them: but they fear it, as if they knew quite 
well that it was the greatest of evils. And what 
is this but that shameful ignorance, of thinking 
that we know what we do not know ?” 

She was aware of the fact that the heavy 
curtains of the doorway had been drawn aside, 
and that someone had entered the room. No 
doubt it was Aylmer, — Aylmer, the gentle tutor, 
her faithful friend who had patiently, and with 
great forbearance, taught her the delights of 
intellectual attainments, who had led her, step 
by step, along the path of learning — removing 

13 


The Daughters 


this obstacle, explaining that problem — until 
now, although a mere child, she could under- 
standingly read the philosophy of Plato in Greek. 

Thinking he was present, and proud of her 
proficiency, she continued to read aloud — ^with 
a shy thought that it would please him. ‘‘And 
I will never do what I know to be evil, and 
shrink in fear from what, for all that I can tell, 
may be a good, ” 

“Right, my Lady, right!’’ came a strong 
masculine voice at her side; and her heart leaped 
with a choking fright, — for she knew that the 
voice was not Aylmer’s. 

Down tumbled her book on the hard oaken 
floor, with a clatter that served to increase her 
nervous agitation. 

“My Lady.?” he inquired, as, making a 
courtly obeisance — a kindly-looking man of five 
and thirty stepped forward, and stooping, he 
recovered the book, glanced curiously at its 
title, and handed it to her — “My Lady?” he 
repeated soothingly. 

“I was surprised,” she explained. 

“ Pardon,” he said, as he saw the warm blush 
sweeping over the pallor of the child’s face, “but 

14 


of Suffolk 


I came unannounced, and claim the privilege 
of the season for so doing/’ 

A smile flitted across her sensitive lips, — 
‘‘You are right welcome. Master Ascham,” she 
replied, heartily. “ It is I who should ask pardon 
for so rude a reception, but I was alone, and — 
and — the Lord of Misrule has turned our senses 
during the past week.” 

“You are not a rebellious subject of his 
Majesty, I hope.?” began Ascham, as he sat 
down on a broad wooden bench. “Children 
should delight in Christmas festivities, and 
mummers ” 

He knew that he was mistaken, even before 
she answered, coldly, — 

“It is pleasing, no doubt, to — children.” 

The conversation died as she turned from 
him, and gazed listlessly out of the window. 

He squirmed, ill at ease on his bench, arranged 
the broad ruffle around his neck, picked at the 
buckle of his sword belt, and twisting his bonnet 
in one hand, he smoothed its short plume in the 
other, for all the world like a bashful school- 
boy. 

She first broke the silence. 

15 


The Daughters 


“It is current news, Master Ascham,” she 
began, graciously, “that you are about to travel 
in Germany ? ” 

“ I am, my Lady,” he responded, cheerfully — 
for her displeasure had weighed heavily on the 
good man, and right glad he was for the change 
in her manner. “In truth,” he went on, “my 
visit here, to-day, was timed for the purpose of 
leave-taking.” 

“And my parents afield, with the household, 
— I am sorry,” she added, glancing slyly at him 
from under her drooping lashes. 

He caught the glance, and from now on he 
resolved to accept her at her own valuation. 
She had long been to him a wonderful child, 
and the author of the “Schoolmaster” had 
found in Jane Grey “a noble and worthy lady,” 
— a child with the mind and intellect of a 
philosopher. 

He acknowledged her implied challenge with 
a deferential bow. 

“ It was not his grace the Duke, nor her high- 
ness the Duchess whom I came particularly to 
see,” he answered, while his studious eyes 
searched hers. 

i6 


of Suffolk 


‘‘My sister Katharine is in her chamber,” 
she suggested. “I will find her.” 

She attempted to arise — and again the book 
fell from her lap to the floor. 

He picked it up and waved a hand in protest: 
— “A mere child,” he said, “whose thoughts 
are of the youth, and of things ephemeral: the 
announcement to her of my presence would 
not be agreeable.” 

“Then I alone, of the household, am left,” 
she remarked, ingenuously, — adding hastily, 
as she saw a broad smile overspreading his 
features, — “unless indeed you might care to 
see some of the gentlemen, or gentlewomen.” 

She concluded with a ripple of laughter, as 
she saw the smile on his face displaced by a look 
of genuine perplexity. 

“My Lady, I came to see, you,” he said, 
bluntly. And she ceased her persiflage. 

He was turning the book in his hands, uncon- 
sciously smoothing and pressing it with the 
affectionate handling that only a true book- 
lover can give, when he abruptly asked her: 

“Why are you not with the others, hunting 
in the park ? ” 


17 


The Daughters 


Jane smiled and answered: 

"‘I think, all their sport in the park is but a 
shadow to that pleasure that I find in Plato: 
alas, good folk, they never felt what true pleasure 
meant.” 

Ascham showed no surprise at the precise 
and demure answer of the prim little maiden, 
but he went on in the same formal manner and 
asked her: 

“And how came you, Madame, to this deep 
knowledge of pleasure, and what did chiefly 
allure you unto it: seeing, not many women, 
but very few men, have attained thereunto?” 
The girl looked with confidence into his honest 
eyes, — 

“I will tell you,” she said, “and tell you in 
truth, which perchance you will marvel at.” 

“ I have long ceased to marvel at the workings 
of the spirit,” he replied, reverently ; but she 
paid scant heed to his remarks, so in earnest 
she now was with her explanation. 

“One of the greatest benefits that God ever 
gave me is, that he sent me so sharp and severe 
parents, and so gentle a schoolmaster.” 

Ascham bowed his head, as much as to say 

i8 


of Suffolk 


that he was not entitled to so much commenda- 
tion, as her speech continued: — 

“ For when I am in presence of either father or 
mother, whether I speak, keep silence, sit, stand, 
or go, eat, drink, be merry, or sad, be sewing, play- 
ing, dancing, or doing anything else, I must do 
it as it were, in such weight, measure, and num- 
ber, even so perfectly as God made the world ! ” 
She was leaning towards him, her lovely young 
face tense with suppressed emotion, as the vigor- 
ous words, formed in the chaos of misunder- 
standing, found birth and utterance in the sym- 
pathetic atmosphere that enveloped her listener. 
His face beamed with an honest pity as Jane 
went on: — 

‘‘Or else I am so sharply taunted, so cruelly 
threatened, yea presently, sometimes even with 

pinches, nips, and bobs, — and — and ’’ 

She stopped abruptly, her face crimson, her 
eyes flashing with an angry light, her whole 
person quivering with such indignation, that 
Ascham raised his hand to stop and to soothe 
her, — 

“There, never mind the question, I merely 
thought, ’’ 


19 


The Daughters 


She continued as though he were not present 
— first biting her lips, to avoid the shame of 
tears, — 

‘‘The other ways I will not name for the honor 
I bear them, so without measure ordered, that 
I think myself in hell ” 

She paused, and turned from him to the win- 
dow, and as she peered into the fast gathering 
darkness her spirit calmed, so that she essayed 
a feeble smile as she continued: — 

“I think myself in hell till time comes that 
I must go to Mr. Aylmer, who teacheth me so 
gently, so pleasantly, with such fair allurements 
to learning, that I think all the time nothing 
whiles I am with him.” 

Roger Ascham arose to leave, — “ Indeed, 
John Aylmer is a worthy man,” he remarked, 
somewhat generously, “I consider him to be a 
youth of great promise, a Cambridge man, of 
whom we shall hear more in the future.” 

To speak well of whom she likes, is to invite 
a woman’s confidence. Jane was now unreserved 
as she confessed: — 

“Indeed, when I am called from him, I fall 
on weeping, because whatsoever I do else but 


20 


of Suffolk 

learning is full of grief, trouble, fear, and whole 
misliking unto me/’ 

He handed her the book that had caused such 
an avowal: — 

“May your books be ever a consolation, and 
delight, my Lady; I have no fear for one who 
thus conducts her understanding.” 

She took her beloved Plato, and pressed the 
book to her young bosom: — 

“My book,” she murmured lovingly, “hath 
been so much my pleasure, and bringing daily 
to me more pleasure and more, that in respect 
of it, all other pleasures, in very deed, be but 
trifles and troubles unto me.” 

She arose and held out her hand. He bent 
over it and began a homily which he had in his 
heart to say at parting: — 

“ My Lady ” 

“Listen ” she interrupted. 

They both stood silently as the tuneful sound 
of a silver horn was heard in the distance. 

“The Duke and his party are returning,” said 
Jane, anxiously. “Master Ascham, you will 
forgive me when I say that — that — somehow, I 
would that you were not here — on their arrival.” 


21 


The Daughters of Suffolk 


Ascham looked into the troubled face of the 
young girl, kissed the small white hand which 
he held in his own, and turned to go. 

“Au revoir, — ’’ he said, cheerfully, ‘‘may we 
indeed meet again.” 

He bowed low, retiring with his back towards 
the door, when he received a sharp blow in the 
rear that straightened him, instanter, into an 
angry attitude of defense. At the same moment 
a lusty young voice sang in his ear: — 

“Stand, — in the name of the Duke!” 


II. 

CHRISTMAS EVE 





)HE hot blood swept 
across his sensitive 
face, and his muscles 
tightened as he drew 
his sword. 

“Guard! — Ascham 
shouted. 

Then he burst out laughing — his mirth increas- 
ing to a prodigious roar. 

“My faith!’’ he exclaimed, when his laughter 
would let him speak, “ I have no cause of quar- 
rel with you, my Lord. May your shadow 
never grow less.” 

He bowed profoundly, the plume in his hat 
sweeping the floor, as he swung it around in his 
hand, in a sweeping circle of mock deference. 

The stranger acknowledged the salutation 
with a dignified inclination of his head. “It 
is well, thou miserable bookworm. For the 
instant I cherished the thought of exacting a 

23 



The Daughters 


forfeit, for thy insolence, but in consideration 
of thy ignorance, I pardon thee.” 

The bombastic speech ill suited the fantastic 
appearance of the man who made it. He was a 
youth of not more than twenty years, and he 
was dressed in the most outlandish costume 
that his ingenuity could fashion. It was of 
every conceivable color, but principally of green 
and yellow. On his head was a cap and bells, 
and from the long sleeves of his coat, the hem 
of his garments, even from the long pointed 
toes of his buckskins, hung little bells that 
jingled with every movement of his body. In 
his hand he carried a stiff hickory sapling, — ^the 
same with which he had so unceremoniously 
plied the nether part of Master Ascham. 

Jane attempted a mirthless laugh, in accord 
with her visitor, but in her heart she felt a dread 
as her eyes, closely scanning the figure of the 
Lord of Misrule, penetrated his disguise, and 
recognized the familiar figure of young Herbert. 

She knew, that for the ensuing twelve days, 
this graceless young scamp would exercise an 
authority in her father’s house that was not to be 
disputed by any, — not even by the Duke himself. 

24 


of Suffolk 


Truthfully, Ascham was also somewhat dis- 
quieted, and although he laughed at the ridicu- 
lous appearance of the Fool King, with a hearti- 
ness that was a guarantee of its genuineness, 
nevertheless, inwardly, he was cursing his garru- 
lous tongue, and laggard memory, that had con- 
trived to trap him into the Kingdom of Misrule, 
at so inopportune a time. He had just parted 
from his royal pupil, Elizabeth, in a sudden fit 
of pique, over some imagined affront from a 
member of her household, and he was in no 
humor to enjoy the roaring period of festivities 
known as Christmas. 

But, above all else, Ascham was an English- 
man ; and he resolved to loyally abide by the 
customs of his country. 

It was this, for a reason perhaps, and it 
so happened, that a buxom young maid, just 
entering the hall with her arms full of fagots 
to replenish the fire, inadvertently standing 
for an instant under a sprig of mistletoe, was 
astonished to find an arm of the distinguished 
visitor around her shapely waist, while he saluted 
her full red lips with a smacking kiss! 

Jane laughed, this time heartily, as the em- 

25 


The Daughters 


barrassed maid dropped her fagots on the floor, 
and ran out of the room. 

The Lord of Misrule advanced sternly. 

“A forfeit,” he commanded. “No maid can 
be kissed in this house at Christmas except by 
my leave.” 

“Amen,” replied Ascham piously. “A dozen 
forfeits if that maid come my way again before 
Twelfth Night.” 

He bowed again to Lady Jane, as arm in arm 
with the Lord of Misrule, the worthy man dis- 
appeared through the doorway. 

Scarcely had they gone, when a blithesome 
young creature slipped from behind a tall 
wooden screen that stood in a corner of the hall, 
and softly tiptoed towards the window. She 
was graceful and piquant, and her childish 
treble voice was pitched high with her suppressed 
excitement. 

“Did he kiss her, Jane.?” she demanded, 
“did he kiss her ?” 

“Did he kiss who, Kitty.?” asked the elder, 
with provoking deliberation, as her eyes rested 
lovingly on the roguish face of her sister. 

“You know very well whom I mean,” said 
26 


of Suffolk 


the child, petulantly. “I heard everything 
from behind the screen, but I was afraid to 
peep.” 

“Indeed, Mademoiselle Eavesdropper; well 
then it was Herbert who kissed Marie.” 

“It was not Herbert,” Katharine contra- 
dicted; so positively, that Jane broke out laugh- 
ing. 

“For when they elected him the Lord of Mis- 
rule I made him promise me that he would — ” 
she faltered in her speech, — “he would not — 
that he would do no foolishness,” she concluded, 
desperately. 

Jane elevated her eyebrows. “And he the 
Lord of Misrule ? ” She shrugged her shoulders, 
after the French manner. “Well, then it was 
Master Ascham who forgot his years and dignity 
in this merrie Christmas time.^” she suggested, 
with slight sarcasm. 

The alternative seemed not altogether con- 
vincing, but Katharine accepted it with a toss 
of her head that sent her loosely confined hair 
into tangled disorder. 

“If Herbert thinks,” said this tempestuous 

spirit, “to do thus and so. Til ” 

27 


The Daughters 


She was interrupted by a sudden wild chorus 
of shouts and laughter, accompanied by a mixed 
roar of horns, bells, and thumping of cudgels 
that broke from the rear of the hall; and a con- 
fused shuffling and scraping of approaching 
footsteps. 

For a moment the sisters gazed apprehensively 
into each other's faces ; and then Jane, having 
her wits about her, opened the casement win- 
dow, and took the other’s hand, — 

“This way, Kitty: Jump!” 

They landed on the soft wet turf below, as 
lightly as thistledown, and gathering up their 
skirts they made their way cautiously around 
the corner, and along the walls; keeping out of 
the moonlight which had burst through the 
sullen gray sky, and was now enveloping the 
rising mist on the lawn. They reached a narrow 
outside stairway that led to the story above. As 
they crept softly along its stone balustrade Jane 
cast her eyes backwards, over the dark sides of 
the Manor, and a nervous chill came suddenly 
over her as she saw a crouching figure glide 
slowly around a corner and disappear. 

“Friar Grouche, I could swear,” she whis- 
28 


of Suffolk 


pered to her sister. “It bodes no luck to the 
feast if that squinting creature enters the house 
to-night.’’ 

Katharine paused for a moment and cast a 
furtive glance behind her. “You imagine 
things, Jane,” she panted; but her heart beat 
furiously as she leaped, two steps at a time, 
to the balcony above, where she stood quaking 
and breathless with her sudden fear and exer- 
tion. 

Meanwhile, the boisterous crowd of servants 
and retainers, of curious neighbors and lusty 
tramps, who for the season had access to 
unaccustomed warmth and food, came jostling, 
crowding, and pushing into the Hall, bearing 
in their midst the huge Yule log; which in itself 
was no less than the entire trunk of a tree, which 
had been stripped of its bark and thoroughly 
dried. 

This, with much clamor the motley crowd 
deposited in the great chimney, and soon kindled 
into a leaping, dancing flame, that lighted the 
farthest corners of the room. 

And now began an evening’s mirth and jollity 
the like of which even our grandames have never 
29 


The Daughters 


seen. For it passed away, together with many 
other innocent and manly pleasures, long before 
they were born. 

The hunting party had returned, and the 
hospitable Duke and Duchess of Suffolk were 
surrounded by their many relatives and friends 
who had been invited to the comfortable fire- 
place at Bradgate. 

The Manor was one of the most notable in 
the county, and was a good specimen of the 
Norman influence which everywhere in England 
had substituted stone for wood, and intelligence 
for ignorance; both in their dwellings and in 
their mode of living. 

In the Hall was a massive fireplace, overhang- 
ing which was a solid stone mantle. Over this 
mantle hung suspended a dark colored portrait 
of an ancestor of the Duke’s, and ranged along 
its surface were various tankards of pewter and 
brass; over which, like tall sentinels, stood 
two enormous candles, now lighted for Christ- 
mas. 

Around the walls were hung pieces of armor, 
steel hats, a cross-bow, a bandrick or belt, a pair 
of cuishes or armor for the thigh, as relics of 
30 


of Suffolk 


former days; while in one corner were stacked 
several arquebuses of more recent design. On a 
window-sill was carved the date, A.D. 1490. 

Of the furniture, no more can be said than 
the passing notice that the heavy, uncouth 
pieces were made more for use than for orna- 
ment. It consisted chiefly of benches which 
were permanently placed, and some three-legged 
stools that could be moved about. 

The floor was of heavy hard oak, worn and 
stained by the feastings of many generations, 
and covered with rushes — to hide the numerous 
discolorations. 

As the evening advanced, the Yule Log burned 
with a fiercer glow of light and heat, and the 
noise of revelry mingled and grew apace with 
the crackling of the fire. In front of the blaze, 
ranged on a semi-circle of low stools, a group 
of topers warmed their fingers and toes, while 
they brewed their drink in brass vessels, buried 
deep in the hot embers. 

Behind them, a minstrel twanged incessantly 
on a time-worn harp, fretting the strings in 
accompaniment to a song which he roared at 
the top of his lungs. 


31 


The Daughters 


The first verse began: — 

“ Now, Lordlings, listen to our ditty, 
Strangers coming from afar; 

Let poor Minstrels move your pity, 

Give us welcome, soothe our care; 

In this mansion, as they tell us, 

Christmas wassail keeps to-day; 

And, as king of all good fellows. 

Reigns with uncontrolled sway.” 

As he finished each verse the entire assemblage 
would join heartily in the chorus, as follows: — 

“Hail father Christmas! hail to thee! 
Honour’d ever shalt thou be! 

All the sweets that love bestows. 

Endless pleasures, wait on those 
Who, like vassals brave and true. 

Give to Christmas homage due.” 

At one end of the room was Roger Ascham 
surrounded by a group of wits, who laughed 
and applauded as the versatile man recounted a 
series of romantic tales. They were all more or 
less colored by the fumes from bottles of ‘‘Vino 
Rubeo,’’ and “de Ossey,” with “de Reane,” 
and “de Malvesey,” which, from time to time, 
32 



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of Suffolk 


during the evening, found their way to him and 
to his admirers from the Duke’s private stock. 
He was the wit of the evening, and, from his 
side of the house came such sounds of hearty 
mirth that it permeated the entire Hall, and 
infused a subtle sense of hilarity to every one in 
it. It was the time of the Renaissance when 
there were but few of the Nobility who could 
not read and write in at least one other beside 
their own language. Many of them had their 
“lybrayres” well filled with the Greek and 
Latin classics, and the scholar, Ascham, could 
make but few allusions to these worthy masters 
that was rot understood and appreciated by 
most of his hearers: So that his lines had fallen 
in pleasant places. He could also dance well 
and sing; and he had an artistic nature that 
harmonized in his studies with his sense of the 
beautiful; above all he was bright and cheerful, 
with a buoyant, optimistic disposition that found 
good in the present, no regrets for the past, and 
an inspirating anticipation of the future. 

When he was called for a song he arose 
promptly and in a fairly good baritone voice, 
somewhat husky with wine, he began to sing: — 
3.5 


3 


The Daughters 


‘‘ Lo! now is come our joyfuKst feast! 

Let every man be jolly, 

Each roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly, 

Now all our neighbours* chimneys smoke. 

And Christmas Blocks are burning; 

Their ovens they with bak*t-meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 

Without the doore let sorrow lie; 

And if, for cold, it hap to die, 

Wee*le bury’t in a Christmas pye. 

And evermore be merry.*’ 

When he had finished the verse he was ap- 
plauded vociferously by loud clapping of hands, 
stamping of feet, and knocks of stout oak cud- 
gels on the stone hearth, while some of the more 
enthusiastic spirits called: — 

“More, — more, — of the same!” 

Ascham stood for a moment, smiling and 
confused, “Faith, I have forgotten the words,” 
he said, and then abruptly sat down. 

There was much laughter, and a renewed 
clinking of mugs and tankards, and a pledging 
of healths by the boisterous countrymen; who 
at this time had no fear of their throats being 
34 


of Suffolk 


cut by a Danish knife as they threw back their 
heads and lifted the cup. 

Amidst all the noise and confusion the Duke 
called to his daughters for a song. 

“Please sing, Kitty,” said Jane nudging 
her sister, “ I am in no voice this evening.” 

Katharine blushed and hesitated, “ But I 
have never yet sung before people.” 

“But you can,” urged Jane. 

As the young girl arose and took her place 
beside the minstrel she stooped and whispered 
something in his ear. The old man — for so he 
appeared by reason of a shaggy white beard that 
nearly covered his face — nodded his head, and 
tuned his harp. 

As his hands swept across the strings, and 
then rested on a full joyous chord, there arose 
from Katharine’s round white throat such a 
burst of melody, free and buoyant as the ripple 
of a mountain stream, as to cause a sudden and 
complete cessation of the indescribable noise 
and tumult of the room. The words of the song 
were by Jacques Tahureau, and the music was 
of the minstrel’s own composing. 

She began: — 


35 


The Daughters 


“ The high Midnight was garlanding her head 
With many a shining star in shining skies, 

And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes. 

And, after sorrow, quietness was shed. 

Far in dim fields cicalas jargoned 
A thin shrill clamor of complaints and cries; 

And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise. 
With pallor of the sad moon overspread.” 

Instantly, every head was turned tovi^ards the 
beautiful girl, whose exquisitely regular features 
were now illumined with the genius within her. 
Her large blue eyes, though enveloped with 
the tender sadness that seems always to lurk 
beneath heavy lashes, were flashing with the 
light of emotion which animated her whole 
frame. Higher and clearer the notes rang, 
the music was rich with joy; with the natural 
sweetness of a bobolink, or a lark : — 

“ Then came my lady to that lonely place. 

And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace 
And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over.” 

As they gazed upon the slight perfectly fash- 
ioned form, the square shapely shoulders rising 
white and firm from her flaring corsage, the 
36 


of Suffolk 


wanton tress of hair falling low over her fore- 
head, the straight delicately pencilled eyebrows, 
the high-bred sensitive nostrils, the beauteous 
mouth with its cupid bow, they marvelled and 
whispered together: — 

“It is Katharine V* 

“Yes, — surely, ’’ 

“ But, — she is a woman ? ’’ 

“And, so beautiful!’’ 

As she ended the next lines: — 

“Wherefore the day is far less dear than night, 
And sweeter is the shadow than the light.” 

— her voice faltered, she hesitated, grew a 
deadly white, and stopped. 

The minstrel prompted her: 

“ Since night has, ” 

She turned to him: “I cannot, — Oh I can- 
not!” she whispered — “that hideous face!” 

He followed her frightened gaze and looked 
into the ugly, squinting face, livid with drink, 
and diabolical with excitement, of the Friar 
Grouche. 


III. 

A LOVERS’ QUARREL 





^HERE 


was a supersti- 
tion in Leicestershire, 
in which the people of 
that locality firmly be- 
lieved. If a bare-footed 
or squint-eyed person 
entered the room where 
the Yule log was burning, on Christmas Eve, it 
was woe to that assemblage, individually and 
collectively, for the ensuing year. 

Small wonder then, that a maiden of Katha- 
rine’s imagination and disposition should behold 
with fright the black-robed, bare-footed friar 
whose ugly face and slouching figure was her 
bugbear from infancy. 

As for her individual knowledge of this un- 
couth person her memory extended across a 
vista of eventful years when she first heard the 
nurse’s threat that, “the Black Friar will catch 
you.” That was an anticipated, and quite pos- 

38 



The Daughters of Suffolk 


sible punishment that to her was more frightful 
than her sister Jane’s solemn admonition that, 
“the wicked shall be cast into Hell!” 

In her quaking, tender heart she felt that she 
was wicked, “desperately wicked,” as Jane 
would tell her; every yearning fibre of her sensi- 
tive, healthy body was pulsating and throbbing, 
from early morn till evening, with an over- 
powering love of the good that is bad, and a 
detestation of the bad that is good. 

So, her enjoyment of evil being at its height 
as she sang, with her minstrel, a new French 
love song, her collapse was complete when the 
Black Friar caught her. 

For he did catch her in his arms — strong and 
hairy as a bear’s — and was about to kiss her, as 
she swayed half fainting under a bow of mistle- 
toe, when the young Lord of Misrule, springing 
suddenly forward, struck the friar such a stinging 
blow over his bald pate with his switch of office, 
that he let go of Katharine on the instant. 

Purple with rage he faced young Herbert: 
“How now? my Lord!” he bellowed in a 
voice that could be heard in the kitchen. 

“Naught save this. Holy Father,” — he bowed 
39 


The Daughters 


low with exaggerated reverence, — ‘‘that no 
maid may be kissed in this household during 
Christmas but with my permit.” So saying he 
took Katharine by the arm, gave her a gentle, 
unseen pinch, and led her back to her place by 
the minstrel. And now, if some were watching 
closely, they might have detected the girl — a 
daughter of Eve — ^just rescued from a monster 
by a handsome young knight, slyly dropping a 
small white hand, down by her side, into a warm 
young fist that lay half concealed in the min- 
strel’s wide gray sleeve. They might also have 
seen, and followed, the glance from her eyes as 
it flashed into his, and lighted them up so that 
they no longer looked old and sunken, but were 
round, bright, and eager. 

These, they might have seen; but they could 
not have seen the struggle in the pure, girlish, 
heart against the bad that was good. 

It was a full half hour, but it seemed only a 
moment, when back came the busy Lord of 
Misrule. 

“You are wanted. Sir Minstrel, in the kitchen, 
and you, Katharine,” he added, reproachfully, 
“have danced with me but once this evening.” 


40 


of Suffolk 


“And your fault, Herbert,” — she began to brave 
it out, when her conscience smote her, — ‘^but 
you shall have all that are left.” And, away 
she tripped with the other, leaving the minstrel 
to adjust his old gray beard, and to reflect, for 
the moment, on the mutability of human affairs. 

The dance was a merry one. Almost every- 
one present joined in it, — even the Duke, who 
descended from his aristocratic height, and 
nimbly stepped through the several figures. 

The minstrel had been replaced by a band of 
musicians who made plenty of loud, if not tune- 
ful music, on a variety of instruments including 
the viol, a horn, several flutes, and lute-harps. 

In the moving groups, all keeping time to the 
rhythmic notes of the enthusiastic musicians, 
none were so conspicuous as the young and 
beautiful Katharine and the Lord of Misrule, — 
in the person of Henry Herbert. 

He was big, strong, full-blooded, and already 
inclined to stoutness. His complexion was dark, 
his eyes black, with a glittering, dancing, light 
in them that flashed with the least excitement. 
Underneath an extremely low brow, — which 
was surmounted by a dense growth of coarse 

41 


The Daughters 


black hair — a pair of large eyebrows met, in a 
straggling growth of hair on the bridge of his 
broad nose. 

He had several small accomplishments, 
could talk a little French, had a smatch of 
Latin and Greek, and could hold his own at 
the butts, with broad and flight arrows. He 
could also ride well, was a good boxer, and, 
above all he was the best dancer in the county. 

Besides it was whispered that Herbert had 
expectations, as a younger son of Sir William 
Herbert, who had but recently been created 
Earl of Pembroke, — as the illegitimate grand- 
son of a former valorous knight — and who was 
well known as an influential nobleman, and one 
who took an active part in public affairs both 
as statesman and soldier. 

When the dance was over, Herbert found a 
quiet corner, off a stairway, where he put the 
question to Katharine, short and tersely: — 

“When shall we be married — ?’’ 

He was crowding her closely with an air of 
possession, into an angle of the stairway; and, 
while he talked his hot breath, laden with the 
fumes of much drinking, swept across her face, 
42 


of Suffolk 


as he attempted to kiss her. She drew back, 
offended — ‘‘Herbert, have some respect.’’ She 
blushed and hung her head. This, he mistook 
for a sign of maiden coyness — and blundering 
went on. 

“ If we are soon to be married,” he said, con- 
fidently, “why not buss when we please.^” 

She saw his eyes dancing with excitement; 
then her glance included his heavy person, in 
its ridiculous costume of green and yellow, his 
gold rings and precious stones, the little bells 
with their incessant jingling and a revulsion 
came over her, so that she again hung her head 
in silence. 

He waited awhile and foolishly pressed his 
suit: 

“I have the Duke’s consent, Katharine,” he 
whispered, bending over her. 

“No doubt,” she answered, looking up 
quickly, “ever since the King has granted your 
father an Earl’s patent it has been naught with 
my parents but Herbert this, and Herbert that, 
or, what does Herbert think until T am down- 
right sick of the name!” 

She paused in her thoughtless anger as she 
43 


The Daughters 


noticed its effect on her lover. His eyes flashed 
ominously, and the red blood mounted under 
his swarthy skin, showing dull and heavy, as a 
crimson sunset through yellow dust clouds. 
His mouth, with its full lips, opened and shut 
again while it framed no words. Then he 
reached into his bosom, under the wanton fabrics 
of green and yellow and drew forth a little hand- 
kerchief. 

It was a very little handkerchief, about three 
or four inches square, wrought round about, 
and with a tassel at each corner of gold lace. 
It had a small silk button in the centre, and had 
been carefully folded in four cross folds and 
worn in his hat, until he had deemed a secret 
place more sacred. 

He handed it to the now frightened girl, arose, 
and making a profound bow, he walked away. 

“Herbert, Harry,’’ she called tremulously, in 
an undertone, fearing that others might hear 
her. But her sweet, imploring, tones that would 
have lured a savage to her feet, were lost in the 
furious jingling of his fool bells. * * * In 

the middle of the sixteenth century, in England, 
it was not considered improper for a maiden 
44 


of Suffolk 


to permit her male friends and acquaintances 
to visit her in her chamber. 

This was probably a custom made necessary 
by the entire lack of privacy in the dwellings of 
those days. Then, the Hall extended over nearly 
the entire first floor, and the semi-seclusion of a 
modern sitting room, library, or parlor, was 
practically unknown. 

Katharine’s chamber was in the old part of 
the house, with a door leading off from a balcony 
to which a narrow stairway of stone led to the 
garden. There was also another door leading 
into a larger room adjoining, which was usually 
occupied by her sister Jane. 

The room was small, as were most of the 
others, when compared to a modern apartment; 
the walls were hung with tapestry in which 
hunters with falcons, their horses and dogs, 
were grotesquely intermingled with trees and 
rustic bridges. The bed,^ which stood in a 
corner of the room beside a small casement 
window of diamond shaped glass, was of rough 
and heavy workmanship. It was narrow, and 
was covered with a square frame over which 
hung a red curtain of figured silk. 

45 


The Daughters 


Opposite the bed, against the other side of 
the wall, was a wide oaken bench the back of 
which was rudely carved with fantastic figures 
and odd, distorted, faces. 

At the head of the bed was a heavy wooden 
chair with a very high back, and, lying on this 
chair was a book — a copy of More’s ‘‘Utopia” 
— translated into English, which she loved, from 
the Latin which she hated, and presented to her 
by the translator. Raphe Robinson. 

The room would have been cold looking de- 
pressing and forlorn, save for the trifling evi- 
dence of its occupancy by a woman. 

On a square table near a south window, 
stood a jar of jasmine, the delicious odor from 
its white blossoms permeating the entire room. 
On the same table, in artistic order — for there 
must ever be order in art as in nature — were 
some loose sheets of music, a small inlaid chess 
board, and her beloved horn-book. 

Around the latter clustered many memories 
of her childhood days, and she loved it as a 
child loves an old and worn out doll. 

It was nothing more than a thin board of oak, 
about nine inches long and five wide, on which 
46 


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of Suffolk 


was printed the alphabet, the five vowels, and 
the Lord’s prayer. It had a handle, and was 
covered in front with a sheet of thin horn to 
prevent its being soiled. 

On its back was a wonderful picture — a rude 
sketch of Saint George and the Dragon, — that 
filled her youthful imagination during many of 
the silent hours of the night. That marvellous, 
admirable Saint George, who was stolen away 
at his birth by the weird lady of the woods, who 
brought him up to deeds of arms. Katharine 
knew the story: his body had three marks: a 
dragon on his breast, a garter wound round one 
of his legs, and a blood red cross on his arm. 
Then, there was a stagnant lake abroad, some- 
where, infested by a huge dragon, whose poison- 
ous breath had many a city slain, and whose 
hide no spear nor sword could pierce. And, 
as she thought of the dragon Katharine would 
sometimes sit up in bed and draw the curtains 
apart, a little, and peep around the moon-lit 
room; every day a virgin was sacrificed to it; 
and at length it came to the lot of Sabra, the 
king’s daughter, to become its victim. 

Poor Sabra, that was the name of her doll. 

47 


The Daughters 


How every line of Saint George’s body, on the 
back of that horn-book, had been bedewed with 
Katharine’s moist kisses for saving the life of 
Sabra! for when Sabra had been tied to the stake 
and left to be devoured by the dragon did not 
he come up and thrusting his lance into the 
dragon’s mouth, kill it on the spot! 

And so they were married. 

Saint George and the foreign princess, and 
they lived in Coventry, happily, ever after. 

Hanging on the wall was a portrait of a court 
lady by Hans Holbein, which had been painted 
for Henry VHI, and had been presented by 
him to his niece, Katharine’s mother. It was a 
beautiful portrait and the colors were rich — but 
the eyes ! — the eyes, sad and mysterious with an 
unknown sorrow would follow Katharine 
wherever she moved, in whatever place she 
went in the room. 

She knew somewhat of that court lady, just 
a rumor coupled to incautious remarks made 
in her hearing by her mother’s friends, and she 
pitied her, as one woman pities another whom 
she thinks has been wronged. 

Into her chamber came Katharine Grey this 
48 


of Suffolk 


Christmas Eve, towards midnight. Her face 
was flushed, her teeth were set, white and gleam- 
ing beneath her scornful, upturned, lip, her 
hands clenched into two dimpled fists, and her 
eyes flashing with rage. She trembled with sup- 
pressed excitement so that she could scarcely 
form the words dismissing her maid, who had 
preceded her with lighted candles. 

“Is there anything, My Lady?” the maid 
began, patiently, as she pretended not to notice 
the disorder of her mistress. 

“Nothing, Marie, you may go.” 

Here, was no child of fifteen years. As she 
turned her back to the maid her beautiful form, 
graceful, svelte, enveloped in a clinging robe 
of silk and peacock feathers, showed lines of full 
maturity. 

No sooner had Marie closed the door than 
Katharine hastened to drop the oaken bar with 
which it was fastened. Then she took the little 
silk and jewelled cap from her head and threw 
it carelessly on her bed. 

“ If Herbert thinks,” she muttered, and her 

eyes flamed afresh, her bosom heaved, as many 
thoughts came trooping into her excited brain. 
49 


4 


The Daughters 

“Never!” she exclaimed aloud, in reply to 
some inward suggestion, and as her voice rang 
through the chamber her sister Jane appeared 
in the inner doorway. 

“Why, Kitty! what is the matter ?” 

It was a most inopportune question, and, 
uttered in the calm, precise, manner in which 
Jane usually spoke, it was in a measure 
irritating. 

For in truth, Katharine was not at all certain 
at the moment just what was the matter. She 
tried to think that Herbert had treated her badly, 
when he had returned her the little love token, 
just because she had shown some anger at her 
parent’s preference for the young man, and then, 
her conscience smote her as she recalled the 
thrilling moments when her hand rested in the 
warm grasp of the minstrel. 

It was all very confusing and perplexing, as 
the image of the Lord of Misrule appeared and 
disappeared, in a bewildering alternation in her 
memory, with the image of the white-bearded 
minstrel in juxtaposition. 

However, she did not hesitate a moment. 

“I was singing,” she answered, bravely, and 

50 


>/ Suffolk 


then — she fell a-weeping, childlike, in Jane’s 
cool white arms. 

And now came a confession of her troubles, 
which, when Jane heard, it disturbed her not a 
little. For she knew that the marriage of 
Katharine to Herbert, son of the Duke of Pem- 
broke, was as dear to her father’s heart as was 
her owm projected marriage to Dudley, son of 
the Duke of Northumberland. 

Both projects were matters of state with which 
the sisters had nothing to do but to conform to 
their father’s will. 

For this reason, as well as for the natural love 
and affection which she bore to her impulsive 
sister, Jane began, with soft pattings and em- 
braces to soothe her ruffled spirit. 

“Never mind Kitty” she said consolingly, 
“he will come back, presently, more loving than 
ever.” 

She felt the quick shrug of a. warm shoulder 
under her cool hand. 

“But Jane, — I — I — don’t want him to come 
back, I — ” She was interrupted by a light, 
hesitating, knocking on her door. 

Katharine released herself from Jane’s encir- 

51 


The Daughters of Suffolk 

cling arms and proceeded to hastily dry her 
eyes on a miniature square of fine cambric. 

“There is Herbert, back already,” said Jane 
as she walked towards the door. 

Katharine ran in front of her with a sudden 
whirl of her lithesome body. 

“Wait — Oh! — Jane, — I don’t think it is 
Herbert,” she said, anxiously. 

Jane attempted to put her sister, gently aside. 
“Well then it is Ascham, or perchance, Guil- 
ford Dudley? At any rate child we can open 
the door, what harm on Christmas Eve?” 

So saying Jane lifted the oaken latch. 


IV. 

THE MINSTREL 



OME** said Jane, boldly. 


At a slight pressure 
from without the great 
door swung heavily in- 
ward, admitting the 
head, with its shaggy 


white beard, and shoulders of the old minstrel. 

He started and shrunk back as his glance first 
caught sight of Lady Jane, and then his form 
grew more erect as Katharine came forward 
with outstretched hands. 

“You are welcome. Sir Minstrel,’’ she smiled 
bravely, as she quickly observed a question in 
his eyes. “We were just discussing the evening, 
and my foolish failure in singing your song, 
but that inhuman face of Friar Grouche com- 
pletely abashed me, and I could not finish. 
Here, sit here. Sir Minstrel, and tell us of some 
of the many happenings that occur in your 
wanderings.” 


53 



The Daughters 


She led him to a corner of the great oaken 
bench, while she rattled on in an enveloping 
haze of trifling talk, to hide his evident embar- 
rassment, while he unconsciously adjusted the 
beard that had fallen somewhat awry on his face. 

As Jane’s quick eye observed the movement 
she fell to laughing, as she searched his features 
with a penetrating and most disconcerting gaze. 

“Methinks,” she began in mock musing, 
while she crooked a slender finger under her 
pointed chin. But what she thought was of no 
further advantage, or consequence, for, with an 
angry movement, the minstrel quickly divested 
himself of beard and wig, at the same time he 
sprang to his feet, and throwing aside his coarse 
gray mantle, he exposed the handsome and 
regular features, and richly apparelled figure, 
of Seymour, son of the Duke of Somerset. 

He bowed low to the ladies. 

In strong contrast to the decrepit minstrel 
was the strikingly handsome man who had just 
attained his majority. As he straightened him- 
self, and stood erect before the sisters, they 
viewed him with mingled feelings of alarm and 
admiration. 


54 


)/ Suffolk 


He was above the average stature, and he 
carried his well proportioned, muscular figure, 
with the ease and dignity of poise that could 
come only from an ancestral line of soldiers. 
In his face, the features of which were perfectly 
regular, his eyes of blue shone distinctly, and 
brilliantly, as an index of a character at once 
brave, gentle and loving, but also inflexible, 
determined, and persistent. His eyes, together 
with the slightly fretful expression of his fore- 
head, the half scornful curl of his sensitive 
upper lip, and his manner, indicated a tenacious 
will, that would steadily maintain its course, 
that would keep on, and follow up its purpose, 
in spite of all discouragements and difficulties, 
to the end. 

Such was the manner of man who, having 
discarded his minstrePs robe, now addressed 
himself to Jane. 

“You are surprised, cousin, that I should dare 
to see Katharine again, you glare at me as though 
I had committed a cardinal sin 

Jane, nervously, sat down on the chair at the 
head of the bed, and faced the couple who now 
sat hand in hand, on the hard bench opposite. 
55 


The Daughters 


Her position was a most trying one, for her love 
for her sister was the only bright influence in an 
atmosphere of stern, parental discipline; it was 
the one sweet, natural love that prevented her 
from becoming a slave of, so called, duty. 

Her conscience had already grown to such 
mastery over her inclinations that her brilliant 
mind was constantly occupied with introspec- 
tion, so that whatever her nature willed to do or 
say, seemed to her as suggestions of the evil one, 
to be averted, or held in check, by an invincible 
shield of will power, which she had carefully 
constructed for herself, and which she denom- 
inated character. 

It was this shield — cold, bright, and glittering 
— which she mentally placed between the lover’s 
happy faces and her heart, before she answered. 

“ It were better for Katharine, it was her duty, 
not to see you, it was wicked in her to see you 
again.” 

Poor, loving, Katharine who believed in her 
sister as the incarnation of Truth, bowed low 
her head from which her wealth of golden hair 
fell loose and unconfined as a mantle over her 
sinful neck and shoulders. It was as if the 
56 


of SufFolk 

sentence of a most just judge had been pro- 
nounced upon her. 

“And you were a man, Jane,” Seymour said, 
as the blood mounted to his angry brow, “I 
would demand satisfaction for the pain you give 
Katharine.” 

Jane looked into his indignant eyes with a 
scornful calm. 

“You need not go far to seek a man,” she 
said, quietly, “Herbert, was in the Hall below, 
just now, and can no doubt be found on the 
premises, I can find him.” 

She arose to go, when Katharine, again, 
rushed between her and the door. She was wild 
with fear, and her long burnished hair fell in 
waving beauty to her knees, enclosing a white 
upturned face. 

“Would you have m-murder, — for — for — con- 
science sake,” she gasped, her heart beating so 
rapidly that she could scarcely breathe. 

And, as the younger — by a generation in feel- 
ing, by a year in age — lifted her soft arms appeal- 
ingly, the eyes of the “court lady” in Holbein’s 
portrait on the wall never left her. Then the 
dimly lighted room became dimmer, while Jane’s 
57 


The Daughters f 


immobile features withdrew farther and farther, 
until they vanished in the distance. She tottered 
and swayed, like a delicate lily in a cruel, ad- 
verse wind, and would have fallen to the floor 
had not Seymour ran and caught her in his arms. 

‘‘There will be no murder, my Katharine,’’ 
he whispered in her ear as he gently lifted her 
unconscious form to the bed, “Not that I fear 
a score of such as Herbert!” he turned on Jane 
hotly, while he again assumed his white beard 
and minstrel’s cloak, “but for her, and for her 
sweet sake alone, I go.” 

So saying he strode manfully through the 
doorway to the balcony, and, without casting a 
glance behind him, he disappeared into the 
night. 

“Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth.” said 
Jane, piously, as she set about reviving her sister. 

She had scarcely commenced her loving min- 
istrations when the sound of music filled the air 
beneath the window. It came from the little 
band of musicians who, having finished their 
services in the hall and kitchen were now going 
around the mansion, and playing under the 
guest’s windows. 


58 


of Suffolk 


Katharine’s eyes opened slowly, wearily, and 
then closed again, while her breathing, at first 
fluttering and uncertain became normal and 
regular. As she lay exhausted on the bed, Jane 
held her hand and they listened to the strains, 
now distinctly heard under their balcony. Jane 
blew out the candles and pulled aside the cur- 
tains from the casement window. The moon- 
beams entered and tipped the harsh outlines of 
the old chamber with softening touches of silvery 
white. 

As the sounds receded they grew fainter and 
fainter until, finally, they were lost in the dis- 
tance. 

Nothing could be heard now but an occa- 
sional sigh, a catching of the breath, half sob- 
bing of Katharine, and the soft crooning of 
Jane as she murmured in low tones. 

‘‘My Kitty, my Kitty, for me I care not, but 
that you must suffer, also 

“Oh! Jane,” the other moaned. “Do you 
think that he will — ever — come back?” 

Jane patted her tear wet face. 

“ Hush ! Kitty, you must not,” 

“But do you think so, Jane?” she persisted, 
59 


The Daughters of Suffolk 


her arms clutched tightly around her sister’s 
neck, while she kissed her cheek, again and 
again. 

There was a moment of hesitation, A sudden 
fierce rush of conflicting emotions, a riot of feel- 
ings, such as occur to any man or woman, no 
matter how carefully trained or disciplined — 
tumultuously arrayed against the small guard 
of Duty. And Duty was overthrown. It fell 
to the ground, was trampled under foot, and 
passed over. 

“ He will come back to you Katharine, some- 
time.” 

“Oh! Jane,—” 

Her limbs relaxed, as her head drooped, back- 
wards. Her sobs had ceased, there was silence, 
quiet, repose, in the dimly lighted chamber. 

Katharine fell asleep, tightly clasped in Jane’s 
arms. 


V. 

CHRISTMAS MORNING 



HEN the sisters awoke, 
the next morning, it 
seemed as if their ex- 
periences of the night 
before had been a phan- 
tasmagoria, a phrensy 
of the brain. Their 
bodies ached with the cold and unusual mental 
exertions of the preceding day. They yawned 
and stared drowsily about them as the increas- 
ing morning light aroused them to a sense of 
life and its attendant troubles. And as they 
stretched their aching limbs, and while their 
minds slowly recovered their normal condition, 
they heard the sound of footsteps outside their 
door, and then a burst of voices chanting an old 
Christmas carol, the words of which ran: 

“ This day to you is born a child, 

Of Mary, meek and Virgin mild, 

That blessed son, winsome and kind, 

6i 



The Daughters 


Shall you rejoice, both heart and mind. 

My soul and life, stand up and see. 

What lyeth in a bed of tree. 

What Babe is that, so good and fair ? 

Christ it is, God^s son and heir.” 

Being fully dressed, they opened the door 
suddenly, and beheld a group of servants, both 
men and women, who were going about the 
mansion and tapping at each door while they 
sung their carol. 

‘‘A Merrie Christmas,^’ Jane repeated to 
Katharine, as they stood shivering, in the 
cold grey light of six o’clock on a wintry 
morning. 

It was anything but ‘‘merrie” to these two 
forlorn maidens. As they looked from the 
window they beheld a sombre view. A wide 
stretch of sodden pasture land sloped gradually 
to a fringe of dark forest trees. A cold rain was 
falling — sullen, depressing, persistent, — ^with- 
out any wind or motion to indicate from whence 
it came, or how long it would continue. In the 
garden, below, the moonlight of the preceding 
night, which had tipped with a silvery radiance 
the evergreens and winter foliage, had vanished 
62 


of Suffolk 

before the slow advance of a grey morning, of 
a day without sun. 

All the gnawed and weatherbeaten angles of 
the old mansion showed their seamy and cracked 
faces, and the trees, without the redeeming 
shades and shadows, stood motionless as the 
rain drops gathered and dripped from their 
bare, unsightly limbs. Not a sign of human 
life or habitation was in the prospect. Not a 
sound of bird song was in the damp, heavy air. 

They changed their costumes in silence and 
prepared themselves as best they could, for the 
day above all others the most joyous in England. 

The day began with services in a small chapel 
that was in the village, adjoining the estate. In 
it, each Sabbath, was heard the reformed ser- 
vices, compiled by Cranmer and Ridley only a 
year or two before, and published as the “First 
Prayer Book of Edward VI.’’ 

It differed from the one now in use by begin- 
ning the daily service with the Lord’s Prayer, 
by retaining prayers for the dead, and directing 
the use of the sign of the cross in confirmation 
and visitation services, and the anointing of 
the sick. 


63 


The Daughters 


It was new to the people, and many of the 
household of Henry Grey were unable to do 
more than listen to the services as they were 
read by Jane’s tutor — John Aylmer. 

This young theologian who was then not 
over thirty years of age, usually conducted the 
services in the little Chapel, reading the new 
prayer book from a table in the chancel, while 
the Duke and those of his family who could 
read, made responses. 

But Aylmer was zealous in the Reformation, 
that was now sweeping over the civilized world. 
He was not satisfied with the “First” prayer 
book and he was already in touch with Martin 
Bucer and Peter Martyr, two distinguished 
foreign reformers who had been called by 
Cranmer to revise the “Second” prayer book. 
Bucer had died only a few months previously, 
and the leaders of the movement in England had 
paused in their great work, for a day, to lower 
his body into a grave that was afterwards dese- 
crated by that bloody Mary of unsavory memory. 
On the same table within the little chancel was 
a copy of Coverdale’s Bible, translated by Miles 
Coverdale, afterwards Bishop of Exeter, dedi- 
64 


JOHN AYI.MER 


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)/ Suffolk 


Gated to Henry VIII and the first English Bible 
sanctioned by royal authority. 

A copy of this Bible was on the table not solely 
because that was the proper and fitting place 
for it to be, but also for the reason that every 
parish by royal proclamation was obliged to 
have a copy in the parish church under a penalty 
of forty shillings a month. 

Here also was Cranmer's Catechism, not com- 
posed by Cranmer, but only adopted by him. 
It was originally written in German, was trans- 
lated into Latin by Justice Jonas, the friend of 
Luther: was brought to England in 1548, and 
translated by Rowland Taylor, one of Cranmer’s 
chaplains. It insisted on Three Sacraments — 
baptism, absolution, and the eucharist — and 
stated that those who had heathen parents and 
who died without baptism were “damned 
eternally.” 

A new copy of this translation grim in its 
teachings, terrible in its finality, was on the 
table and was used by Aylmer in the instruction 
of the youth who attended his services. 

The rain ceasing for awhile, a party from the 
Mansion walked to the Church and Aylmer tak- 
S 65 


The Daughters 

ing his place by Jane, began at once to converse on 
the subject so near to his heart. “ I like not the 
opening, of our new service,” he said, “ The Lord’s 
Prayer seems not in place as a preliminary ” 

“Indeed,” answered Jane, “I find so many 
changes that I scarce have time to pray, with the 
effort of following the directions.” 

Aylmer looked hard at his pupil as if to fathom 
the meaning of her reply; was it sarcasm or 
gentle irony ? 

“And yet I would change it somewhat more,” 
he argued, “I like not the Romanish use of oil 
in baptism, the unction of the sick, and of prayers 
for the dead.” 

“There be many old ceremonies to which the 
people are attached,” Jane replied, “that in 
themselves are non-essential, and which it would 
be a pity to change, for example ” 

She was interrupted in her serious discourse 
by loud shouts, laughter, and a tumult which 
proceeded from a motley crowd of men and 
boys who were coming down the same road on 
which the Duke and his party were soberly walk- 
ing to church. As they entered the fields, to 
give the company the highway, a curious pro- 
66 


of Suffolk 


cession passed them, the like of which on such 
an errand has not been seen for many a year. 

First, running ahead and tumbling from right 
to left, and zig-zag across the road, were all the 
small boys and dogs of the neighborhood, — 
screaming, whistling, howling, and yelping in 
one confused and discordant noise. 

Then, spearing at the boys and dogs, and 
chasing them from one side of the road to the 
other, rode half a dozen of grotesque figures 
carrying long wooden poles. These were fol- 
lowed by a score of mounted men wearing 
liveries of green and yellow, and their persons 
bedecked with scarfs, ribbons, and laces, hang- 
ing all over with gold rings, precious stones and 
jewels. Tied about their legs they wore, each, 
a dozen or more bells. In their hands and tied 
about their necks and wrists they wore embroid- 
ered handkerchiefs — “borrowed for the moste 
parte of their pretie Mopsie^, and loovying 
Bessies for bussying them in the darcke.’’ Fol- 
lowing the mounted men, more gaudily decorated 
than any of them, rode their King, the Lord of 
Misrule. He looked neither to the right or the 
left as he passed the little party of church goers, 
67 


The Daughters 


who were lined up behind the low hedge. Once 
he stole a covert glance at Katharine, but she 
took no notice of him beyond a scornful glance 
that left her nose tilted, somewhat affectedly, in 
the air. 

After their King had passed there came a 
disorderly crowd of “baudie Pipers and thon- 
deryng Drommers, to strike up the Deville’s 
Daunce withall.*’ The whole boisterous crowd 
marching to the church, “their Pypers pipyng, 
Drommers thonderyng, their stumppes daunc- 
yng, their Belles tynglyng, their handkerchefes 
swyngyng about their heads like madmen, their 
Hobbie horses, and other Monsters skyrmishyng 
amongest the throng: and in this manner they 
went to the church.” 

When the mob had passed, the Duke and his 
party proceeded, slowly, after them. 

“There are some ancient customs,” said 
Aylmer, the horrid din still ringing in his ears, 
“that might be dispensed with, and nothing be 
lost.” His eyes followed the crowed who were 
now cavorting around the old church yard, shout- 
ing and yelling like men possessed of the Devil. 

“Indeed,” said Jane, placidly, “I agree 
68 


of Suffolk 


that ” “Hurry Jane,” interrupted Katha- 

rine, her face flushed, and her whole manner 
eager and full of excitement, “or we shall miss 
the sight in the church.” 

“Small loss,” growled Aylmer, as he quick- 
ened his pace. 

Amidst the noise that filled the church from the 
merry revellers outside, Aylmer as in duty bound 
began the reformed Protestant services. He had 
scarcely lifted up his hands in prayer when a 
crash was heard, and the church doors flew 
open, tumbling over the vergers who pretended 
to hold them. With a rush came the whole 
crack-brained assembly, in a noisy confusion 
that completely drowned the preacher’s voice. 

The congregation, so rudely disturbed in their 
devotions, jumped to their feet, and some 
skipped, nimbly, upon the pews, so that they 
could the better observe the foolish antics of 
the mummers as they danced arpund and around 
the church, “like Devilles incarnate.” 

The fantastic performance was not without 
its commercial feature. As the performers 
moved in and out amongst the congregation 
they carried with them small baskets filled with 
69 


The Daughters of Suffolk 

badges on which was painted some “babblerie 
or other, of Imagerie worke,” which they sold 
to the people for whatever money they could 
get. And, it was woe to the person who wore 
no badge when they came out from the church, 
for these mean ones the mummers “mocked 
and flouted at shamefully.” 

So far had license entered the holy Catholic 
church in this period of its history. 

Aylmer stood in the chancel, pale with inward 
anger, while the Duke made haste to empty his 
pockets of silver into a basket of badges, from 
which he drew a handful, to decorate his family. 

As for Jane, she submitted to wear one, for con- 
science sake, but Katharine tore the flimsy thing 
in bits, and threw the pieces on the stone floor. 

It was at this moment when Herbert in his 
gaudy insignia confronted her. 

“You must wear a token Katharine,” he 
whispered, “Or even I cannot protect you from 
their foolishness.” 

Katharine’s dainty nose went up, a mere trifle, 
higher. “When I need your protection I will 
send for you,” she answered, proudly, and fol- 
lowed the others from the church. 

70 


VI. 

LORD OF MISRULE 


HRISTMAS in the six- 
teenth century was far 

different from Christmas 
of to-day. Instead of 
being a single day of pro- 
fuse and indiscriminate 
exchange of presents, accompanied by mild 

festivities of a semi-religious character, it was 

a popular festival that began on the twenty- 
fourth day of December, and ended on January 
the sixth, or Twelfth Night. 

During all of this period, all classes mixed in 
high revelry and merry makings. Hospitality 
was universal. ‘‘An English country gentleman, 
held open house. With daybreak on Christmas 
morning the tenants and neighbors thronged 
into the hall. The ale was broached. Black- 
jacks and Cheshire cheese, with toast and sugar 
and nutmeg, went plentifully around. The 
hackin, or great sausage, must be boiled at day- 

71 



The Daughters 


break, and if it failed to be ready two young 
men took the cook by the arm and ran her around 
the market place, till she was ashamed of her 
laziness. 

The women also had their privileges. In 
some localities it was the right of every maid 
servant to ask the man for ivy to dress the house 
withall, and if the man refused, or forgot, the 
maid stole a pair of his breeches and nailed 
them to the gate in the yard or highway. In 
other places a refusal to comply with such a 
request debarred the man from the privileges 
of the mistletoe. 

Gentlemen and ladies went to early service 
in the church, and returned to breakfast on 
brawn and mustard, and malmsey. Mustard 
is your great provoker of a noble thirst. Brawn 
was a dish of great antiquity, made from the 
flesh of large hoars which lived in a half wild 
state, and when put to fatten were strapped and 
belted tight around the body, so as to make the 
flesh dense and brawny.’’ 

Christmas in those days meant two weeks of 
roaring festivities: of a lusty, vigorous, and 
hearty revelry. 


72 


of Suffolk 


In the Duke’s household the Christmas dinner 
began at eleven o’clock, and continued until 
late in the evening. 

It was not nearly so elaborate an affair as 
that held in the Abbey hard by. Here, the 
Abbott who governed, sat at his table up fifteen 
steps above the commoner folks, and was served 
by monks who stopped at every fifth step and 
chanted in chorus, — ^while the hot dishes grew 
cold. 

In the mansion of Henry Grey a long table 
was spread extending the entire length of the hall. 
The fire had been replenished with heaps of dry 
wood, and the flames leaped and wreathed up the 
deep-throated chimney: a pleasing sight to those 
who entered from the mist and cold of the outside. 

The head of the table, where the Duke and 
his family were seated, was elevated a few feet 
above the rest; his neighbors sat lower, while 
the retainers, and servants were seated at the 
lowest level. 

Fresh rushes covered the floor and hid the 
scraps and droppings of the previous feasts. 
As they stood or sat around the long board a 
loud knocking was heard in the kitchen: this 
73 


The Daughters 


was the signal made by the cook with a rolling 
pin, when the dinner was ready to serve. Amidst 
much confusion the entertained and their enter- 
tainers were finally seated. 

Katharine Grey, at the head of the table 
looked anxiously along the rows of faces for 
sight of Seymour. She heaved a sigh of mingled 
relief and disappointment, to find that he was 
not at the table. 

Her sister Jane pinched her arrn. 

“He is over there, by the fireplace, Kitty,*’ 
she whispered, “don’t look his way ” 

But Katharine stole a furtive glance; and 
there was the old white-bearded minstrel twang- 
ing away on his harp — his head bowed low over 
the instrument. 

“Oh — sister, don’t tell — ” she gasped. But 
Jane’s eyes were fixed on the hall doorway as a 
servant announced in a loud voice — “Lord 
Dudley.” 

There was much commotion and subdued 
whispering as young Guilford Dudley made his 
way, with a light elastic step, towards the head 
of the table. He cordially grasped the hand of 
Suffolk, who rose to greet him. 

74 


>/ Suffolk 


“ Right welcome Guilford ” said the Duke. 

“And how fares it with your father?” 

“He is well,” said the young man as he took 
the place offered him, between the sisters, “And 
he bade me give you the compliments of the 
season, and best wishes.” 

“We thank you,” said Suffolk, aloud. Then 
in a lower tone he asked : 

“And matters at Court: is there any public 
news ?” 

“The Duke of Somerset has been committed 
to the Tower, if that is news, already three weeks 
old,” laughed Dudley, lightly, as he buried his 
face in a large tankard of malmsey. Suffolk 
paled a trifle as he lifted his cup to the 
pledge : — 

“Death to Traitors.” 

He brought his cup heavily to the table. “The 
Protector in the Tower,” he repeated as if to 
himself: and in his preoccupation his eyes failed 
to notice the ashy whiteness that came over 
Katharine. It spread slowly downwards, from 
her smooth young forehead, and then to her 
cheeks, and lips, like the shadow of death. 

The noisy twanging of the harp had suddenly 

75 


The Daughters 


ceased, and she knew that the tidings were cir- 
culating from mouth to ear along the great hall. 
Somerset in the Tower — Somerset in the Tower. 
She knew that Seymour his son would soon hear 
it, and then 

Try as she would she could not look toward 
the minstrel. Rigid with fear and apprehension 
she sat bold upright — her heart beating wildly. 
Her ears were singing with the alternating 
rushes of hot blood, and a creeping chilliness 
came over her that she felt must soon subdue 
her senses. 

As the music ceased so did the conversation 
die away to indistinct words, in whispers. So 
profound was the sudden silence in the hall, 
that the Duke’s next words, although intended 
only for those near to him, reached to the farthest 
end of the table. 

“And our cousin. His Majesty, the King — 
How fares young Edward ?” he inquired. 

“His Majesty is not in the best of health,” 
replied young Dudley, gravely. Then, nudging 
Jane, playfully, he whispered something in the 
young girl’s ear that kept her awake during many 
long hours of the night; something that sent the 



EDWARD SEYMOUR, DUKE OF SOMERSET 


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if Suffolk 


red color mantling her neck, face and ears, until 
she felt herself on fire; something that made her 
grow hot and cold by turns, so that she could 
scarce preserve her composure. 

“Impossible — Dudley,” she whispered: “I 
could never be Queen — never — ” She shook 
like one in an ague. 

And now the Duke’s roving eyes seeing first 
the hot blushes, and discomposure of his eldest 
daughter, and the waxen paleness of the younger, 
and feeling the irritation of the man suddenly 
deprived of his mirth by another’s witless re- 
marks, brought his clenched fist on the table, 
with an impetuous oath. “How now. Sir Min- 
strel!” he roared. “Are there no strings to your 
harp, that you sit under the mantel, like a toad 
in a shower ^ A song man, for here comes the 
dinner.” 

Katharine turned, and her loving young eyes 
sought the minstrel’s. There was such mute 
entreaty, such a wealth of love and sympathy, 
such a pleading, and promise of things to come, 
in those blue eyes that he scorned the agony in 
his heart and nodded his head. Checking his 
grief over the calamity that had come to his 
77 


The Daughters 


father, with a supreme effort, his hands found 
the strings, and be began a song: 

*‘The Boar’s head in hande bring I 
With garlands gay, and rosemary, 

I pray you all synge merily, 

Qui estis in convivio.” 

As he sang, in a forced and nasal voice, the 
first verse of the old melody, a loud chorus 
joined him from the end of the hall. 

Then, in came a procession of retainers carry- 
ing between them an enormous platter on which 
was a great boar’s head. It was soused and stuck 
all over with branches of rosemary, and as they 
sang in unison the whole assembly arose to their 
feet, as the dish was deposited on the principal 
table at the upper end of the hall. 

The occasion was one of great state and 
solemnity. 

It would be tedious to enumerate the various 
dishes — many of ancient origin — that garnished 
the table of Henry Grey on that eventful Christ- 
mas Day. The dinner was the domestic event 
of the whole year, and the cook who could 
arrange the longest bill of fare was considered 
78 


of Suffolk 


as the man of the hour; he was greater in popular 
favor than the Abbot himself. 

The feast opened with what was called, “A 
Warner before the course ” but whether the 
“ Warner” was an ancient and honorable 
ancestor of our modern “cocktail;” a skeleton 
exhibited by a servant as in the Egyptian 
banquets; or a sermon by the ranking ecclesi- 
astic, is of little moment. It was followed by: 

A shelder of Brawne, 

Frumetye with Veneson, 

Swan with Chawdron, 

Capons of high goe, 

Pik in latymer sauce, 

Perch in Jeloy, 

Custard royal, 

Tarte Polyn, 

Frutt Fromage, 

Following the procession that carried the 
boar’s head came Herbert, as Lord of Misrule, 
whose authority during the twelve days of Christ- 
mas, not even the master of the house might 
question. His general authority was worded 
as follows : 


79 


The Daughters 


“I give full po'sver and authority to his lord- 
ship to brake up all lockes, bolts, barres, doores, 
and latches, and to flinge up alle doores out of 
hendges, to come at all those who presume to 
disobey his Lord’s commands. 

God save the King!” 

An old Puritan writer contemptuously refers 
to the Lord of Misrule and to his companions 
as “hell-hounds.” Herbert appeared sur- 
rounded by a court of young blades whom he 
had appointed to be the officers of his household 
and guards. 

Preceding him was a herald who, after blow- 
ing a shrill blast on his trumpet, announced: 
“The most magnificent and renowned Herbert, 
by the favor of fortune. Prince of Utopia, Lord 
of Nowhere, Duke of Happyland, Marquis of 
Mirth, Master of the Manor of Bradgate, and 
Commander of all Solemnities whatever.” 

As he advanced with a slow and dignified 
tread and demeanor, suited to his exalted rank, 
Herbert seemed to feel that a certain amount 
of the farcical authority vested in him for twelve 
days of Christmas, was in reality a patent of 
nobility. His black eyes danced and glittered, 
8o 


o/ SufFolk 


with excitement, and his flushed face denoted 
a mind that was laboring under unusual exhila- 
ration. 

A large round table had been set apart, but 
near the head of the long board, for him and 
his court; and to this he strutted with much 
grandeur of mien, while a quartette of drummers 
beat vigorously on their drums. 

As he took his seat in the circle of probably a 
score of companions — graphically described by 
Stubbes as “ lustie-guttes ” — this grand “Cap- 
taine of Mischief” looked somewhat anxiously 
across the table in search of Katharine. He 
was probably wondering how all the fanfaronade 
would strike her fancy — doubtless he would 
have resigned all of his brief honors for one faint 
smile of approval from her blue eyes. But, 
that inscrutable young person, although seated 
directly opposite to him, near the head of the 
long table, merely glanced at him, in much 
the same way that a child would gaze curiously 
at a group of Morris dancers. 

His eyes roved around the circle of his wanton 
liveried companions with marked disgust. He 
turned impatiently in his seat. 

8i 


6 


The Daughters 


'‘She regards me as a Counterfeit Fool,” he 
muttered inwardly, “all that I need now to com- 
plete my character in her eyes is a coxcomb 
hood, with asses ears!” 

Then he fell to drinking deep draughts of 
malmsey, pledging each in turn all who would 
clink his tankard. 

At the long table Guilford Dudley was enter- 
taining those within sound of his voice with the 
latest news of the City. Directly opposite was 
seated the thoughtful Aylmer who, with Roger 
Ascham, enjoyed the privilege of being near the 
host’s family at the head of the board. 

It was Aylmer who addressed Dudley: 

“ How fares the cause of our religion ? ” he 
asked. “What with the new learning, and other 
matters of modern devising men seem to give 
little thought these times to their soul’s welfare.” 
He spoke with the earnest seriousness of an 
enthusiast — his eager gaze fastened on Dudley’s 
laughing face with marked disapproval. 

“My faith, its not the new learning at all, 
but the old customs that interfere with our 
Protestant Doctrine,” replied Guilford, “I’d 
have you listen to these notes of a sermon deliv- 
82 


of Suffolk 

ered by our own Bishop Latimer before the King 
himself.” 

He drew from his doublet a small book of 
beautifully embossed leather binding. “ Its not 
in my fashion,” he added, glancing slyly at Jane, 
but the King will have it that we must take notes 
of the Bishop’s remarks, like so many school 
boys. This is what he said: “I came once 
myself to a place riding a journey homeward 
from London, and sent word over-night into 
the town that I would preach there in the morn- 
ing, because it was a holy-day; and I took 
my horse and my company and went thither. 
I thought I should have found a great com- 
pany in the church — when I came there the 
church door was fast locked. I tarried there 
half an hour and more; at last the key was 
found, and one of the parish comes to me and 
says: ‘This is a busy day with us, we cannot 
heare you, this is Robin Hoode’s daye, the 
parish is gone abroad to gather for Robin 
Hoode.’ I thought my rochet should have 
been regarded, though I were not, but it would 
not serve, but was fayne to give place to Robin 
Hoode’s men.” 


83 


The Daughters 


Roger Ascham washed down a bit of fat capon 
with a draught of red wine: ‘‘Small blame to 
them” he commented, “that they should want 
to celebrate their Kyngham with Robin Hood 
as King of the May. ’Tis an old custom, and 
harmless in its observance.” He glanced up and 
down the board, smiling genially, and received a 
series of nodding approvals. 

“Aye so it is ” 

“Many a time IVe ” 

“ It was always so ” 

But Jane frowned severely: 

“ Seek ye first the kingdom of God ” she said 
piously, “and afterwards if you will the Kings- 
Game.” 

Aylmer bowed his approval as he caught the 
grave eye of his pupil. 

“My lady speaks the truth.” he declared. 
“We must shake olF these foolish ceremonies 
if the Protestant doctrine is to prevail.” 

Dudley shrugged his shoulders as he closed 
the book and returned it to his pocket. 

“How about the Lord of Misrule and his 
‘foolish ceremonies’” he quoted to Jane in an 
undertone as he touched her arm. “I would 

84 


of SuflFolk 


have you regard his Most Exalted Highness 
at this present moment!” 

She half turned her head to obtain a better 
view of the other table, and her fine high-bred 
face took on an expression of pity, mingled 
with contempt, as she watched the antics of 
Herbert and his companions. Instinctively 
she lowered her head as the disgraceful sight 
met her gaze — of Herbert intoxicated, and 
making futile efforts to climb on the table. His 
copious libations of the preceding night — a 
time and place where it would have taken a 
more experienced head than his to avoid the 
shame of drinking too little; or the penalties 
demanded of him who drank too much — added 
to the various drinks of Christmas brewing, in 
which he had indulged since early morn, had 
proven too much for his excitable nature, so 
that he was now shamefully inebriated. 

But, even as she lowered her eyes, Jane was 
conscious of the fact that her regard had at- 
tracted attention. She felt instinctively, that 
Herbert’s redoubled efforts to mount the table, 
would be followed by something disagreeable, 
in which she or her sister Katharine would 

85 


The Daughters 


have undue prominence. She trembled a little 
as his eyes met hers in instant, but confused 
recognition. 

“Now for the wedding — ’’ he mumbled; and 
a burst of loud laughter came from the round 
table. 

“Oh, what did he say?’’ she asked Guilford 
apprehensively, the noise drowning his words. 

“Silence!” commanded Herbert, imperiously, 
as he stood unsteadily on the table, and began 
to pound it vigorously with his rod of office — 
“Silence!” he roared. 

There was a gradual cessation of the tumult 
as Herbert’s imperative command rang through 
the hall. 

Then there was an ominous quiet. 

Katharine — nervous, fearful, anticipative of 
something she knew not what; but of which her 
acute susceptibility and delicacy of feeling made 
her conscious — Katharine glanced hurriedly at 
the minstrel, and meeting his too ardent gaze 
hung her head in some confusion. 

When she raised her eyes it was to look 
squarely into the blazing face of Herbert — full, 
red, inflamed and furiously angry. 

86 





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of Suffolk 


From his elevated position on the table he 
was looking down upon her like an incarnate 
imp of Satan. His uncouth garb of green and 
yellow; his cap and bells; bells on his sleeves, 
bells on his long pointed toes, tiny bells that 
jingled comically with every wrathful gesture, 
bells whose tinkle only added to his rage — made 
him appear almost unworthy of even her friend- 
ship. For the moment she felt happy in her 
quarrel with such as he appeared to be. 

But she shuddered under the malignancy of 
his expression, at the malevolence of his gaze 
as he slowly raised an arm and pointed toward 
her with his wand of office. 

“My lady Katharine” he began ceremoni- 
ously and bowing low to her in mock deference 
he measured his words, slowly, “before the 
assembled guests — all my loyal subjects — I 
choose you to be my Queen of Misrule; and in 
conformity with the new religion, I do now 
invite and bid you all to the marriage ceremony.” 


VIL 

A RESCUE 



NSTANTLY all eyes 


were turned towards the 
young girl, and she felt 
the warm blood rising to 
the tips of her shapely 
ears. 


A disagreeable faintness crept slowly over 
her as she realized the fact that she was the 
observed of all the company; and she might have 
succumbed to her weakness, had not a stimulat- 
ing throb of indignation relieved her. 

Now, she understood Herbert’s expression. 
Now, she realized the awkwardness of her posi- 
tion; the fatuity of his designs. 

He would marry her forsooth without her con- 
sent! He would have her willy-nilly. He would 
take advantage of his authority, his foolish, 
ridiculous authority; and that seemed to make 
it the more contemptible, to think that as Lord 
of Misrule, he had nominated her to be his wife ! 



The Daughters of Suffolk 

Such a proceeding had once been consummated; 
but, with a common woman. 

And to be married outside of the Church, 
without any of the ceremonies so dear to the 
heart of a woman, so necessary to the heart of 
romantic Katharine. 

Her indignation changed to anger, and then 
arose to rage. She grew white and red by turns, 
her throat swelling, her eyes snapping danger- 
ously. 

‘‘Oh! the wretch,’’ she breathed into Jane’s 
ear. She glanced appealingly at her father only 
to find him shaking with laughter at Herbert’s 
audacity. 

She grew pale as death as she became con- 
scious of the web that seemed to be ensnaring 
her at every turn. At that moment she had no 
desire to marry Herbert, indeed the liking that 
she ever had for him had changed with the 
swiftness of a woman’s mind to positive dislike. 
If he persisted in his determination — if he 
used his authority — she felt that she would 
hate him. 

For an instant her heart stopped beating as 
the thought flashed across her mind that behind 
89 


The Daughters 


the foolishness of Herbert there was method — 
that she might be the victim of a stern political 
necessity. She had often discussed the matter 
with Jane; and she had always insisted that 
Herbert was the choice of her parents — by the 
way her sister was also laughing at her confu- 
sion. Then it was all understood, it had all 
been arranged. 

She raised her head to see Herbert coming 
towards her followed by all his train of roystering 
youths and her pallor changed to rosy crimson 
as her fury increased towards him. He held 
out his hand to her. 

“Nay Herbert, I wish not the dignity ** 

She laughed, but anyone in their senses would 
have known that such a laugh betokened no 
good to him who had caused it. Her eyes blazed, 
like twin sapphires in a setting of crimson velvet, 
as she arose from her seat at the table and, bow- 
ing low to her father craved his permission to 
retire. 

Herbert stared at her in open-eyed admira- 
tion. The exquisite beauty of the girl had 
already made her famous throughout all 
England. He saw her young lithe form sway- 
90 


of Suffolk 


ing before him — her large blue eyes lustrous — 
defiant, bewitching. Then her dark heavy 
lashes, downcast, scarcely veiling the dangerous 
glitter that was consuming him — modestly con- 
cealing the fear that was in her. He saw the 
tumultuous heaving of her white shoulders, the 
rising and falling of the kerchief that covered 
her lovely neck. He saw the quivering, high- 
bred, sensitive nostrils dilating, the beauteous 
mouth curving with scorn. 

“No Kitty, you shall not!*’ exclaimed the 
Duke, quickly, “it is but a farce, child,” he 
added soothingly, as he saw the now terrified 
expression of her face, “Stand up beside Herbert, 
and go on with the play.” 

But Katharine still hesitated, she wavered and 
hung back. -There was a slight commotion at 
the head of the table, and then came the Earl 
of Pembroke, father of young Herbert, ponder- 
ously making his way around the tables, and in 
and out through the group surrounding Katha- 
rine. He was closely followed by her father — 
the Duke of Suffolk. 

They stood beside the frightened maid and 
motioned the heavily cowled figure, who was 

91 


The Daughters 

to officiate as a priest, to proceed with the 
ceremony. ' 

“We will stand by you Kitty,” said the Earl, 
jocosely, “see, here is your father, also. Now 
they can do you no harm.” 

Katharine’s fear subsided and her anger 
cooled, but nevertheless she was going to show 
Herbert 

“ I am flattered,” she began scornfully, as her 
glance enveloped the sorry figure of the young 
Lord; then catching the silly and bewildered 
expression that began to cover his face, she burst 
into rippling laughter. 

“Katharine,” he said, very close to her ear, 

“If you really don’t ” He seemed to have 

recovered his senses, as one coming out of sleep. 
His intoxication was gone, and his fury had 
vanished. He was pale and serious. 

She drew her head away from him. 

“Indeed I appreciate the honor,” she said 
in sarcasm, and her reply was lost in the laughter 
of the guests who joined in her mirth. 

“But Katharine,” he persisted, “If you are 
unwilling } ” 

Something seemed to weigh on the young 
92 


of SuflFolk 


man’s mind, something that made him hesitate. 

‘‘ If you will only answer one little question,” 
he breathed into her ear, earnestly, “then it 
would matter but little, perhaps. Do you 
Katharine.? Do- you ?” he repeated. ‘"Answer, 
quick! while those fools are laughing! do you 
love ” 

She cut him short with a toss of her head, 
scornfully, impatiently; and drew apart from 
him with evident displeasure. Her action and 
manner could not have offended him more had 
she struck him with her hand. He bit his under 
lip, quivering with emotion, and straightened 
his broad back, with a stern dignity of manner 
that near brought her to his side. There were 
times when Herbert was strikingly handsome. 
As he drew himself up to his full stature he 
towered above her — large, strong, full-blooded. 
His dark features were drawn and tense; his 
eyes, of a glittering black, had lost their irreso- 
lute, flickering light, and were fixed with a 
masterful determination. He had the appear- 
ance of a strong, powerful man, one who would 
have his way at any cost. 

The Duke, her father, was watching them 
93 


The Daughters 


closely. He twisted the ends of his long mous- 
tache, impatiently. 

‘‘Nay, there are no ifs and huts,’’ he com- 
mented on the few words of the conversation 
that had reached his ears, “go on with the play.’’ 

He nodded to the priestly looking figure 
who, at once, began a jargon in Latin, with 
such uncouth faulty tongue that the saintly 
father, who was buried in the Abbey hard by, 
must have groaned and turned in his grave. 

At a pause in the performance the cowled 
person thrust forth from beneath his mantle, a 
naked arm and dirty hand. 

“The ring?” he mumbled. 

Katharine started violently. “Nay,” she 
protested, “we can pretend.” The ceremony 
was becoming altogether too real for her liking. 

And, the outstretched naked arm and dirty 
hand had an evil look. She wondered what 
manner of man could have such fingers and 
nails. She tried to penetrate his disguise, to 
seek his face beneath the heavy hood; but he 
hung his head lower, and evaded her searching 
eyes. 

“Faith, I forgot it,” Herbert laughed; and 
94 


)/ Suffolk 


the crowd of guests, pressing closer around him, 
enjoying his confusion, laughed also, uproari- 
ously. 

Then they parted to make way for the old 
minstrel who, as a privileged guest, was pushing 
them aside, right and left, until he had reached 
Herbert’s side. 

“Here, my Lord,” he said aloud; and taking 
from his pouch a little wisp of silk he unwrapped 
it, and held aloft a beautiful ring of the most 
curious and exquisite workmanship. It was 
finely wrought of burnished gold, and its many 
gems, cunningly set, flashed and glittered in the 
firelight like one great jewel. 

There was a chorus of admiring exclamations 
from the ladies as they encircled Katharine. 

“Well, Kitty!” said one, “With that ring I 
would care little who was the man.” 

“Aye, even a fool, like Herbert.” 

“Nay, if it were but a poor scholar like 
Ascham,” said a mischievous damsel to whom 
the author had been quoting from his own writ- 
ings, “with such a ring I might be tempted to 
foolishness.” 

They jostled and laughed, made merry in 
95 


The Daughters 


the good old Christmas manner, while Katharine 
stood quaking in her pointed slippers; and turn- 
ing red and white by turns, as the minstrel’s 
familiar voice rang in her ears. 

“A Christmas bauble, for my lady Katharine,” 
he shouted above the noisy tumult. 

Herbert took the ring, felt its weight in his 
hand, and, noting its surpassing richness of 
design, placed it on Katharine’s finger. 

'‘It bodes no good,” he said, banteringly, 
“for another man to find the wedding ring,” 
then, noting the deadly pallor that was alter- 
nating with the red in her cheeks, he added, 
encouragingly, “But, the old man’s gray beard 
will stand as a warrant for his conduct.” Then 
he turned to the minstrel, “ I will give you a fair 
price, old song bird,” he said, slowly, “if you 
came by it honestly.” 

“I want no price,” said the minstrel in a loud 
voice, so that as many as could hear him would 
draw closer through curiosity as he edged closer 
to the priest. 

Then, with a strong jerk from the back, he 
pulled the cowl from the fellow’s head. 

There, squinting and blinking in the strong 

96 


of Suffolk 


light, like an ill-omened night bird, full in the 
gaze of the astonished merry-makers, stood 
Friar Grouche! 

Katharine gave one frightened glance at the 
ugly, distorted features of the black friar, grew 
deadly pale and would have fallen had not the 
minstrel’s arm closed around her. 

At the same instant, with his other arm he 
dealt a swinging blow across Herbert’s face that 
upset him backwards over one of the benches 
that lined the long table. 

All the pent up anger of a man slow to wrath 
was in the stroke that he gave. 

‘‘Take that! Beast, Fool, Knave and liar 
that thou art 1 ” 

He pulled the white beard from his face and 
threw it after Herbert in a fit of ungovernable 
fury. Then he raised his glowing, handsome 
face and shouted down the hall — “A Seymour — 
A Seymour!” and as his sword whirled from its 
scabbard, he pushed Katharine to the wall 
behind him and swung the blade high in the 
air, “For the King!” he shouted even more 
loudly, “and all who hate a damned con- 
spiracy!” 

7 


97 


The Daughters of Suffolk 


At the sound of his voice near half a score of 
young fellows arose hastily from their seats at 
the lower end of the table, and drawing their 
swords made their way to his side. Surrounding 
the couple they formed a bristling circle of de- 
fenders, their swords pointing so that from every 
side there was no approach, unless one wished 
to be spitted like a fowl for roasting. 


VIII. 

MARRIED 





)HERE was so much 
noise and confusion 
among the guests, so 
much merry-making, 
that many who heard 
Seymour’s voice paid 
him but scant atten- 
tion; there were some however whose faces 
paled and whose hearts took on a thumping 
with such violence that they could scarce 
conceal their emotions. There was Guilford 
Dudley in particular, who nervously grasped 
Lady Jane by the arm and attempted to lead 
her from the room and with no gentle urging. 

“For your sake, Jane,” he explained, in- 
wardly cursing his chattering jaw and trembling 
utterance, “for your sake it were best that we 
withdraw from this unseemly brawl.” He was 
almost dragging her across the room when she 
suddenly stopped and faced him. “For my 
99 



The Daughters 


sake, Guilford,” she repeated slowly ‘‘I fear 
no harm in my father’s house.” Then noticing 
his extreme agitation, she drew herself away 
from his grasp and gazed at him curiously with 
her large, serene, eyes. 

She had her father’s aquiline, aristocratic 
features; and the calm demeanor of one who by 
birth and education is superior to many of life’s 
ills. As she regarded his excited face, hers took 
on an expression of amused contempt. “ I shall 
remain here with Katharine,” she said quietly, 
“ but, if you have had ought to do with the con- 
spiracy that sent Somerset to the Tower, beware 
of his son and his company yonder.” 

She nodded significantly towards young 
Seymour, and his little group of brave de- 
fenders. 

As Dudley’s eyes followed the direction indi- 
cated by Jane his nervousness increased. 

“I will have the meddlesome busybody 
arrested,” he said with a sorry show of indigna- 
tion. ‘‘Not by the servants?” inquired Jane 
quickly, “Seymour is one of us, it were better 

for you ” She turned to find that Dudley 

had hurriedly left the Hall. 

lOO 


of Suffolk 


The door had scarcely closed behind Dudley 
when Jane’s father moved close to her side. His 
face was flushed with anger as he viewed the 
disorder of his table. 

“ I saw Dudley slip quietly without,” he said 
in an undertone, “Is he ill ?” 

Her calmness remained unruffled. 

“Guilford was not feeling well/’ she observed 
dryly, “ and he thought that the fresh air might 
revive him.” 

The Duke’s quick, inquiring glance was lost 
in the depths of her hazel eyes. He shrugged 
his shoulders, impatiently. 

“Rubbish,” he exclaimed irritably, “with 
three good men we could have Seymour’s gang 
by the heels in less time than a friar could say 
his prayers. Go, Jane and call him.” 

He stopped suddenly as his roving eye rested 
on young Herbert who was crawling, as best he 
could, from under the bench whence Seymour 
had tossed him. His eyes were red, his face 
swollen, and the short black hair on his head 
seemed to rise, like that on the back of a dog. 
In an instant he would have thrown himself on 
the bristling sword points encircling Katharine 

lOI 


* T he Daughters 

and Seymour, when a heavy hand grasped him 
firmly by his collar. 

“Back! back! you young cub,’’ came a deep 
bass voice in his ears. “ I want no holes in your 
skin, at present — leave young Seymour to me.” 

The powerful old Earl of Pembroke held 
firmly to the neck of his struggling offspring 
with one hand, while the other followed a silver 
chain about his shoulders until it grasped the 
ring of a curiously carved hunting horn. Before 
raising it to his lips he nodded carelessly to the 
Duke, his host. “By your leave, my Lord,” 
he began; and, although his voice was low and 
his words came slowly, one could see that he was 
holding his temper with much effort, “I have 
no wish to violate the hospitality of any man, 
nor can it he said that William Herbert is unable 
to give and take in Christmas frolic, but, this 
play, as you term it, seems to me to have pro- 
gressed beyond the bounds of reason, even to 
stout knocks and blows, and insulting words 
such as no member of my family has ever listened 
to and kept silence.” 

He paused, wrestling for command of his 
temper, his heavy, almost burly figure showing 
102 



WILLIAM 


HERBERT, EARL OF 


PEMBROKE 



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of Suffolk 


in marked contrast to the spare aristocratic 
slenderness of his host who stood pale-featured 
but composed beside his daughter Jane. “The 
play, my lord Suffolk,^* he went on, heavily, 
“the play, as I understood the plot, from you 
and Northumberland, did not include yon son 
of the Protector ’’ He looked significantly at 
young Seymour and his guard; and the edge of 
his anger hardened and grew keen, a paroxysm 
of rage overspread his face. 

“No son of mine, my lord, shall take such 
damned treatment in your house, or even in the 
King’s palace,” he roared. 

So saying he blew a shrill blast on his horn, a 
peculiar call, that was answered almost immedi- 
ately from without. In a few moments appeared 
in each doorway leading into the great hall, a 
body of men; uniformed in plain blue cloth, 
with chains of gold, and badges of a dragon on 
their sleeves. Over their suits they wore long 
capes, also of blue cloth. To the number of 
perhaps a hundred this brave retinue of the 
choleric Earl came pouring in from every pas- 
sage way, their swords unsheathed, their eyes 
seeking the cause for their assembling. Then 
103 


The Daughters 


they found their lord, who had summoned them, 
and at his command they pressed back, with the 
flat side of their swords, the curious guests; and 
ranged themselves, like a living hedge of blue, 
around the little circle that enclosed Katharine 
and Seymour. 

“Gentlemen” said the Earl to those who 
pressed closely around him, — of the hundred 
men in blue perhaps fifty were of good fore- 
bears, — “ disarm those young blades, and escort 
Seymour ten miles towards London.” 

There was a sharp play of swords, a clicking 
and rattling of steel as the blue coats closed in 
upon the little band of defenders. 

The action was short and decisive; in fact 
the entire incident, from the unmasking of 
Friar Grouche, was over in the space of a few 
moments, so that many of the guests, hazy in 
their minds and good-natured from much eating 
and drinking, regarding the affair as part of the 
Christmas festivities, laughed uproariously at 
the sorry figure of young Seymour, as several 
lusty retainers of the Earl lifted him bodily to 
their shoulders; and, despite his kicks and 
struggles, carried him from the Hall. 

104 


of Suffolk 


Katharine stood flushing with mortification 
as her father came forward and took her hand. 
He was suave and polite to a degree that boded 
no good for the young girl, as he led her to the 
irate Earl and his enraged son Herbert. 

“The play gets somewhat rougher my lord,” 
he said, “as the dinner progresses. When wine 
gets to the head of these youngsters it floods 
their brains.” Then he bowed lower to the 
younger Herbert and laughed, “ my young lord 
of Misrule no doubt had matters so arranged 
as to give the play the appearance of a quarrel.” 
His piercing eyes sought those of Herbert, and 
his look conveyed a meaning that was not lost 
on either father or son. “The plot was well 
arranged and acted with such skill as to deceive 
so brave a wit as my lord the Earl of Pembroke.” 
He bowed again to the Earl and to the guests 
who were within hearing, “Perhaps,” he went 
on shrewdly, “ perhaps it was I who was de- 
ceived, and,” he looked around to the group of 
blue uniformed men, “the introduction of these 
gentlemen to our board was also previously con- 
ceived and dexterously consummated with the 
connivance of my lord the Earl ? ” 

105 


The Daughters 


The bluff old soldier, who could no more act 
a part than a bull-dog could play a fiddle, whose 
anger had fallen even more quickly than it 
arose; and, who was willing to retire from a 
situation that was fast becoming ridiculous, 
caught eagerly at the Duke’s suggestion. He 
forced a loud laugh and nodded gaily to young 
Herbert. 

“Faith the boy did well his part,” he ex- 
claimed aloud so that as many as possible of the 
guests could hear him, “ even to the rough tumble 
across yonder bench, which was indeed acted 
most truly to nature.” Then he added with 
affected disparagement, “My part was but to 
bring on the chorus,” He inclined his head to- 
wards his retainers, who, taking the cue from his 
smiling countenance, cheered him clamorously. 

Herbert, glad in the turn of affairs and noting 
the perturbed face of Katharine, moved to the 
side of the young girl, who stood white-faced 
and silent through it all. 

“It was not my fault Katharine,” he whis- 
pered close to her ear, “that Seymour ” 

“Hush!” she interrupted him, impatiently, 
“My father is speaking.” 

io6 


of Suffolk 


And, as he spoke she caught the words that 
fell from the Duke’s lips, as the prisoner at the 
bar hears the concluding words of the judge’s 
charge, her face grew rigid, and her eyes lost 
their expression. 

“My lord Pembroke,” he was saying, in a 
loud voice from the elevated platform at the 
head of the table, “has honored our house this 
day. The play just enacted, in which our 
beloved daughter Katharine was joined in wed- 
lock with the lord of Misrule, was more than a 
play, inasmuch as the ceremony was performed 
by Friar Grouche, a priest in good standing, 
with our consent and that of my lord the Earl 
of Pembroke.” 

He turned to the astonished guests and raised 
a tankard of wine, “to the young couple; may 
happiness attend them.” 

A death-like silence prevailed in the hall; no 
man daring to say the first word, until a cue 
could be had from his neighbor. For the road 
to Tower Hill was worn smooth with the feet 
of those who, for conscience sake, had held their 
opinions. 

The words of Henry Grey were not to be ques- 
107 


The Daughters 


tioned by those who sat lower at his table. A 
man who could have married his daughter Jane 
to the King, had he so willed, could of a surety 
marry another daughter to lord Herbert, if he 
so desired. But, that a priest should have per- 
formed the rites ? There, was a morsel that 
threatened to interfere with their digestion. The 
Protector, Somerset in the Tower, under sen- 
tence of death, the boy King Edward shilly- 
shallying with Henry II the French King, and 
with Charles V. the Spanish Emperor, his sister 
Mary observing daily mass with her chaplain, 
his Council revising the book of Common 
Prayer; in Heaven’s name! which way does the 
wind blow ? They looked from one to the other, 
and then at the Duke who was standing with 
tankard held aloft and all rose to their feet. 

Katharine heard the loud clinking of glasses, 
a buzzing noise, a hum of many voices, faintly; 
as though coming from afar. Then, she saw 
the wicked, squinting eyes of the black friar, 
leering at her, as through an intervening veil of 
mist, and her heart stood still. An oppressive 
weight seemed to have descended on her, bear- 
ing her down so that her knees grew weak, and 
io8 


of Suffolk 


trembled beneath her heaviness of mind and 
body. A numbness, against which she bravely 
struggled, pervaded her senses; so that when 
young Herbert spoke to her she was scarcely 
aware of his presence. When he touched her 
hand the effect was magical. She started vio- 
lently, like one awakened from sleep, her eyes 
grew large and round, her brows contracted, the 
corners of her mouth fell; every line in her young 
face showed dislike, disapproval. 

She drew herself up to her slender height. “ I 
shall never be your wife, Herbert.” 

She said it quickly, earnestly, almost pro- 
phetically, her large blue eyes searching his, 
almost in pity; she spoke as though she foresaw 
events that would cause him pain. 

Then, first craving permission of her parents, 
she withdrew from the great hall, and went to 
her own room. 


/ 


PART SECOND 























IX. 

MARIE 



UTSIDE, the dull gray 


afternoon settled more 
dark and dismal as the 
day grew older; the 
apathetic, listless face of 
Nature showed signs of 
increasing gloom, as the 


rain began to fall in pattering, dull monotony. 

Within the great hall below, the sound of 
mirth and festivity arose with heightening vol- 
ume as the night advanced. In the old part of 
the house, in the privacy of her room, lay 
Katharine, her face buried in the pillows of the 
narrow bed that stood in a corner, sobbing as 
though her heart would break. It was a little 
room, with a door that led by an outside stair- 
way of stone to the garden below, a very small 
room with high walls, hung about with ancient 
tapestry in which were depicted hunters with 
falcons, trees, and rustic bridges — Katharine’s 


113 


8 


The Daughters 


room; and when one included the small garden 
at the foot of the outside stairs, it might be said 
that it was Katharine’s world, so seldom had 
she strayed from it. 

While she wept, prone upon the bed, her 
young French maid, Marie, drew the heavy 
curtains of figured silk over the narrow case- 
ment windows, and was deftly arranging a few 
sticks of dry wood in the fireplace; softly, care- 
fully so that no harsh sounds should disturb 
the grief of her mistress. 

Presently, a cheerful, bright flame, twisting 
in and out amongst the bits of wood, cast a 
lively, dancing light on the walls, on the ceiling, 
and on the fantastic faces deeply carved in the 
big oaken bench that stood against the wall. As 
the faggots kindled and the flame grew larger 
under the skilful coaxing of Marie, the little 
room took on a cheery glow that was warmly 
reflected from the shining folds of the red silk 
curtains. Marie was handy, Marie was clever; 
but, above all things, Marie was wise. She tip- 
toed around the room, softly, anxiously, but 
with the firm conviction that Nature was doing 
more for her distracted mistress than she could 
114 


)/ Suffolk 


do; so, Marie went about assisting Nature and 
making things comfortable. 

When the fire burst into a crackling blaze 
she fetched a little kettle of water and swung 
it on an over-hanging crane. Then she dabbed 
her plump fists into the cushions that covered 
the bench and set them in order. And, as she 
went around the room attending to her homely 
duties, the sound of Katharine’s sobbing grew 
less and then ceased. 

Marie stood still and held her breath. ‘‘Now 
if the blessed child could sleep — Mother of 
Sorrow — I mean our Father.” For Marie was 
but recently turned Protestant. Then she prayed 
in her native tongue as suited her best. There 
was a period of silence, a deep sigh and Katha- 
rine sat up on the edge of her bed. Her face 
was flushed and wet with tears, her hair was 
wildly dishevelled; but, her blue eyes glittered 
in the firelight with the cold hardness of bur- 
nished steel. The spirit of that persevering and 
determined woman, her grand-mother, Mary, 
daughter of Henry VH, who, for duty’s sake 
married Louis XH of France and afterwards 
her heart’s desire, Charles Brandon, seemed to 


The Daughters 


inhabit those wondrous eyes of hers as she fixed 
them on her maid. 

“Marie,” she called from out of the shadow. 

“Yes, my lady.” 

“Marie, I am going away.” 

“Yes, my lady.” 

The little French maid, eternally occupied 
after the manner of her nation, was arranging 
the disordered coverings of the bed preparatory 
to undressing her mistress for the night. In 
Marie’s mind there was but one thing to do 
under all circumstances, whether of happiness 
or sorrow, and that was the first thing that came 
to hand. So she dabbed at the pillows, smoothed 
the coverings, and busied herself about the room. 

Katharine’s eyes followed her as she neatly 
arranged the things on the table; the sheets of 
music; the embroidery; and the little horn book, 
when she saw that, the sigh struggling from her 
heart, between suppressed sobs, caught spas- 
modically in her throat, nigh to suffocation. 

“I am going away, forever, Marie.” 

As she said it Katharine’s under lip twitched 
ominously, and her eyelids trembled, as though 
the tears were again to fall. 

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of Suffolk 


Marie laid some larger pieces of wood on the 
fire, and then dropped the oaken bar across 
the door. 

“Yes, my lady,’’ she commented, briskly. 
Altogether Marie took the announcement of 
Katharine’s departure with what, under the 
circumstances, might be called indifference. 
It served to stay the flow of tears from Katha- 
rine’s blue eyes, and also to cause that impetuous 
young woman to glide from her bed to the floor 
with a most remarkable suddenness. She caught 
the little maid by her arm. “Marie!” she 
exclaimed, indignantly, “are you not sorry, 
that I am going away — forever?” Her voice 
arose on the last word with anxious fervor. 
Marie shook her head and smiled hopefully. 
“But, no, my lady,” she answered confidently, 
“because we go together.” Katharine’s hand 
slipped from the maid’s arm as she caught the 
happy expression in her bright upturned face. 

“Together?” she questioned. 

“Mon Dieu! certainly, always and forever.” 
The warm hearted girl, unable to longer con- 
trol the affection that she had for her mistress, 
threw her arms around Katharine and pressed 
1 17 


The Daughters 


her tightly to her bosom. All the barriers of 
artificially constructed rank fell away and melted, 
before the touch of nature that made these two 
souls equal. 

Then, remembering her duties, with a hawk’s 
wing Marie carefully brushed the ashes on 
the hearth. “Zut!” she exclaimed impatiently, 
“what is this land of fog and rain, rain, rain: 
always the sky is gray?” She scraped the 
hearthstone viciously. Then she stood up and 
clasping her hands in front she gazed thought- 
fully into the cheerful fire. “Yes, together we 
shall go away my lady — to France, perhaps?” 
She said it cautiously, tentatively. 

“To France ?” 

The maid’s suggestion struck Katharine as 
an inspiration. “To France,” she repeated as 
she sat on a low stool, her elbows on her knees, 
her chin resting in the palms of her white hands. 
Then she turned suddenly towards the inner 
door, the one leading into her sister Jane’s 
apartment. 

“My sister?” she asked as she held a warn- 
ing finger to her lips. Then she felt a pang of 
remorse as the thought entered her mind that 

ii8 


of Suffolk 

already she had commenced to play a part the 
end of which might lead to, she knew not where. 

“My lady Jane is in the great Hall, with 
my lord Dudley,” answered Marie promptly. 
Nevertheless she stole softly to the door and, 
listening for a moment, she pushed it gently 
open, “the room is dark,” she said “there is 
no one there.” Then she closed the door and 
fastened it with its brass chain and pin. Com- 
ing back to Katharine she stood behind her, and 
began deftly to remove the hair pins and fasten- 
ings that confined her wealth of golden hair. 
“ But yes,” came the soft voice of the dark eyed 
maid to Katharine’s wounded spirit, “to France, 
why not ” She brushed the fair tresses, that 
gleamed in the fire-light like threads of silk and 
gold, with a soft, even, soothing pressure that 
calmed the irritable nerves. 

“Why not.?” repeated Katharine, while her 
eyes were fixed on the red embers that glowed 
beneath the flames. 

The hard worldly look had left her face, and 
in its place lurked the mild trance-like expres- 
sion of one who revels in a world of imagination. 

Marie’s light fingers were skilfully plaiting 
119 


The Daughters 

the masses of lustrous hair into one long heavy 
braid. 

“Ah, Mademoiselle,” she sighed, “there is 
but one France, Mon Dieu, but there the people 
smile; and the sun shines. It is in France, 
Mademoiselle, that one sees the flowers, and 
where one hears the songs of birds, and the 
laughter of children . . . and if, perhaps, 

we go together you will be happy; so happy. 
Ah, Mon Dieu,” she spoke almost inaudibly as 
she fell on her knees behind her Mistress, to tie 
with a ribbon the end of the long burnished 
braid, “in France one is contented and may 
marry who they please.” 

The words recalled Katharine from her rev- 
eries. She straightened her back and brought 
her hands together in an agony of indecision. 

“But, Marie, I am married,” she wailed. 
The little maid sprang to her feet and raised 
her hands in protest. 

“Mon Dieu, it is not your fault. Mademoi- 
selle,” she exclaimed, briskly, so confidently in 
fact that Katharine observed her curiously. 

“Then you know what happened at dinner ?” 
she inquired, hopefully. 


120 


of Suffolk 

Marie held up one smooth hand, palm up- 
wards, and blew an imaginary thistle-down 
from its pink surface. 

“Poof! it is nothing,’’ she said scornfully, 
“Mademoiselle is not the least bit married. 
No, Mademoiselle, not so much as I am to 
Jacques.” She paused and flushed a rosy red 
that was not unpleasant to look upon, as Kath- 
arine smiled. “But you are not the least bit 
married to Jacques?” she asked, anxiously. 
Marie shrugged her plump shoulders, express- 
ively and returned her mistress’ smile. 

“Pas encore. Mademoiselle. In France one 
cannot be taken unawares by a villainous 

Jacobin like, like ” She stopped, crossed 

herself, and peered nervously into the dark 
corners of the room ... “Hist!” 

Katharine started violently as the little maid 
held up a finger. “Nonsense, Marie,” she said 
petulantly. “ It was only a night bird entangled 
in the ivy.” Again she gazed moodily into the 
fire, absorbed in thought. 

Her vague desire to flee from her surroundings 
that had become hateful to her, and her growing 
indignation at the authors of the trick, of which 

I2I 


The Daughters 


she was the innocent victim, the spirit of her 
ancestors; these were revolving in her mind, 
and crystallizing into a firm resolution with 
increasing strength. There were a few moments 
of faltering indecision as her gaze, following the 
flickering fire-light around the room, rested lov- 
ingly on its familiar objects. 

She recalled many hours of ennui as well as 
of contentment, but the joyous hours seemed 
to have far outnumbered the others. . . 

Within the heavy walls of an English Manor 
in those days there was not much of brightness 
or enjoyment for a young girl of Katharine’s 
temperament; but, such as it was, it was Home. 
As she hesitated, the fire-light touched with its 
radiance, and brought more clearly to her view, 
all the intimate and personal objects of her home 
life. On the table was the chess board; the 
pieces of beaten silver lying in disorder, as she 
had left them, yesterday. . . “Yesterday? 

Was it but yesterday?” she asked herself, 
aloud. And Marie, as in duty bound answered, 
“Yes, my lady.” 

“No, surely,” she went on as though Marie 
was not present, “ It was the day before Christ- 
122 


of Suffolk 


mas, when Jane and I ” Then she noticed 

that the maid was arranging the disordered 
chessmen, and she called to her as one coming 
out of a dream: “Marie, what day is this V* 

The maid, accustomed to the vagaries of her 
young mistress, put the chessboard with its men 
of silver on a small shelf that over-hung the wide 
oaken bench, and answered, lightly, “ But what 
should it be, my lady, if not the blessed day of 
Christmas ?” 

“Christmas Day,” repeated the unhappy 
girl, as her head hung lower, and her chin sank 
more deeply into the palms of her hands. 

“And I was so happy, Marie, only the day 
before?” .... 

For a long time she sat thinking, thinking. 
The minutes lengthened as she sat motionless, 
in unbroken reverie. 


X. 

JACQUES 


iEN Katharine arose and 
drew her slender form to 
its full height, she seemed 
to have advanced in years 
and dignity. In that brief 
space of time, during 
which she had suffered 
her first great sorrow, the loving, stormy, impet- 
uous, forgiving child, seemed to change as by a 
miracle to a cool, calculating, determined woman. 

“Marie,” she ordered, “We leave here to- 
night.” She stooped and pulled from their 
hiding place, under the bed, a pair of light 
saddle-bags. “These will hold the few neces- 
sary things that we need.” She paused; “from 
Leicester we go to London.” 

“From there,” suggested Marie, breathless, 
“we sail for France.?” 

“To No Man’s Land.” she added, mockingly. 
Then pitying the disappointment of her maid, 
124 



The Daughters of Suffolk 

whose countenance fell abruptly, she explained, 
“I will first seek Edward the King, who, being 
my own age and in a measure connected, will 
of his tender pity release me from this hateful 
plot/’ Marie’s face grew more troubled. 

“ Pardon, my lady, but it is said that my lord 
Herbert ” 

She was interrupted by a loud double knock 
on the outer door. 

Katharine, overwrought and sensitive, uttered 
a cry of alarm as her maid advanced to open the 
door. 

‘‘Wait, wait, Marie,” she commanded. 

In another moment she had slipped behind 
the curtains of her bed and drew them close 
together. “Now, Marie,” she directed from 
behind the curtains. “I am away, away; not 
here you understand There is no one here 
but you, and you do not know when ” 

Another series of double knocks rattled im- 
patiently on the outer door. 

“Yes, yes, my lady,” Marie answered her 
mistress, “I understand you perfectly.” Then 
she addressed herself to the unknown visitor. 
“Mon Dieu, monsieur le Diable, for no other 

125 


The Daughters 


would knock at a lady’s door in that manner, 
but you are in a hurry ” 

She tripped lightly to the door and raised the 
oaken bar; then she opened it wide to admit the 
vociferous person of an excited young French- 
man. 

“Jacques!” she exclaimed as she caught sight 
of his disordered countenance — and her temper 
arose. 

He was an attendant at the dinner table and 
was attired as one of Herbert’s retainers. Over 
his fantastic costume he wore a long blue cloak 
that reached nearly to his feet; in his hand he 
held a bonnet, trimmed with velvet and a waving 
plume of feathers. He had taken advantage of 
the many temptations offered him, so that his 
volatile nature was aflame with a pride and 
courage known as — Dutch. 

He looked over the shoulder of the maid, and, 
seeing no one in the room, he caught her sud- 
denly around the waist and kissed her cordially. 
“ Marie, my little one,” he said endearingly as 
he attempted to repeat the salute, but she 
slipped from his heavy embrace in the twinkling 
of an eye. 


126 


of Suffolk 


‘‘Peste! You are abominable/* said Marie 
indignantly, as the mixed aroma of his various 
potations assailed her delicate nostrils, “WhaPs 
the matter with you ? ” 

The young man made another effort to catch 
her but she easily evaded his clumsy endeavors 
by keeping the table between them; and all the 
time she was making signs to him that the fool- 
ish fellow missed seeing. 

Then she changed her tone of voice. 

“ Eh bien, what brings you here at this hour ? ** 
she demanded, sternly. 

He bowed politely. ‘‘My love first, and duty 
next,” he replied, ceremoniously. One could 
perceive from his exaggerated manner that he 
was imitating some of the young lords who were 
in the hall below. 

Marie laughed musically. 

“Then it is time for thy duty,” she said, 
logically. And he began: 

“ My lord Herbert, lord of Misrule, and lead- 
ing devil in Hell’s kitchen, below, is pleased to 
enquire regarding the health of his wife, my 
lady Kath ” 

He got so far when there was a creaking sound 
127 


The Daughters 


from the bed in the corner, the next instant the 
curtains were flung apart and Katharine blazed 
upon him. 

“Tell your lord, the Devil, to go to to 

return from whence he came. Go!” 

She stamped her foot passionately as the 
frightened youth hastily gathered up his long 
cloak and fled from her presence. 

“His wife, indeed!” she panted, contemptu- 
ously, her throat contracting so that she could 
scarcely talk, “a sorry day when the daughter 
of a Duke can be trapped into marriage at 
Christmas tide like a— a common ” 

Her voice failed her for rage and indignation, 
as she threw herself on the bed in a paroxysm 
of temper. . . 

Meanwhile Marie, the wise, slipped quietly 
from behind the table and out into the long dark 
corridor that led to the great stairway. Softly, 
on tip-toe, she followed swiftly the luckless 
messenger of “his exalted highness the lord of 
Misrule,” and, overtaking him at the top of the 
stairs, she lightly touched his shoulder. 

“Jacques,” she whispered tenderly. 

The young man turned at her touch and the 
128 


of Suffolk 


sound of her voice, as a flare of light from the 
hall belo'sv illumined the broad stairway. 

It fell upon her laughing, upturned face, and 
made a most enticing picture, but his heart was 
full of wrath, and he would have none of her 
blandishments. He turned his back on her, 
folded his arms and stood, obstinately staring 
at the hangings on the wall. 

‘‘Jacques, thou silly boy,” came to him lov- 
ingly, more tenderly, from behind him, some- 
where. Then he felt a warm pair of arms with 
their fringes of dainty ruffles, around his neck, 
clinging to him and trying vainly to bring him 
to her level. 

“Oh, thou art so tall and straight, Jacques,” 
she pouted, fretfully, “ thou might stoop, a little, 
just a little.” She was standing on her pointed 
toes, her red lips close to his ear as he turned 
suddenly, and caught her in much the same way 
that one v/ould capture a bright-colored butter- 
fly, that hovered too near. 

There was a stifled scream as Marie’s head 
and shoulders were enveloped in the voluminous 
folds of the long blue cloak, by the dexterous 
arm of her lover. . . . 

129 


9 


The Daughters 


“ But you said I was abominable/’ he accused 
her, as they moved into the shadow. 

“And my lady Katharine within plain hear- 
ing/’ she reminded him, rebukingly. “Thou 
foolish Jacques, when wilt thou ever learn dis- 
cretion ?” 

He was about to answer her when she laid 
a warning finger across his lips 

“Hist!” she cautioned him, “there is some one 
coming.” 

A door swung open noisily behind them and 
out walked Henry Grey, the master of the house, 
and his guest William Herbert, the Earl of 
Pembroke. There was scarcely time for the 
lovers to step quickly aside behind the tapestry 
hangings. They were engaged in earnest con- 
versation and apparently oblivious to their 
surroundings. 

“But, my lord,” said Pembroke, heavily — 
his voice was thick with good wine — “there 
may be some doubt as to the legality of such a 
marriage. In these times ” 

The Duke, whose arm was linked in that of 
the other interrupted quickly, “exactly, in these 
times,” he repeated confidentially, “nothing is 

130 


of Suffolk 


legal. But, I have Northumberland’s word for 
it that Somerset will be ” He glanced fear- 

fully around the corridor and whispered a word 
into the Earl’s ear that made the stout old 
soldier turn pale. 

“No; will he go that far?” He twisted his 
neck in an uncomfortable manner and looked 
ill at ease. “And how about the Council?” 
Suffolk snapped his finger lightly. 

“ They will all do as he directs. A few months 
at the furthest and my daughter Jane will marry 

his son Guilford Dudley, and then ” He 

turned squarely to look into the Earl’s eyes, 
and kept silence. Pembroke stuck both hands 
into the pockets of his waistcoat and hung his 
head in deep thought. “ I see,” he said, shaking 
his head and compressing his lips, tightly. 
Then, as if changing the subject, he said, “They 
tell me that the young King’s health is none of 
the best ? ” 

They were walking slowly down the corridor. 
“No, Dudley says ” 

Then their voices streamed away into the 
noise below, as they passed on down the great 
oaken stairs. 

131 


The Daughters 


Jacques and Marie came, fearfully, from 
behind the curtains. 

“Dieu merci,” she said, trembling at the 
narrowness of their escape, “And monsieur had 
found us eavesdropping, and loitering about 
the corridors, we would have had our two ears 
nailed to a post as a warning to idlers.” Jacques 
shrugged his shoulders. 

“Truly, there was a boy suffered that, in the 
City the other day, because he said that the 
Princess Mary would be the next ruler.” 

Then, the business in hand recurring sharply 
in Marie’s memory, she caught the flap of her 
companion’s long blue cloak and examined it 
critically. “Wouldst thou know it, my stupid, 
amongst all the other blue garments in the hal 
masque, if I should wear it this evening ? ” 

He laughed, confidently, as he laid a finger 
on a broad stain of brownish color, that dis- 
figured the cloak on one shoulder and partly 
down the front. “Of a certainty,” he said, 
“the clumsy Englishman that wore it stooped 
awkwardly beneath my platter and upset a 
tankard of red wine.” He unbuckled the silver 
fastening at his throat and handed her the cloak. 

132 





JOHN HEYWOOD 




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of Suffolk 

“ See that thou wear it, fickle one, and have no 
fear but I will follow it.** 

She took the cloak and also his bonnet with 
the waving plume and turned to leave him. A 
broad burst of laughter, coming from the hall 
below accompanied by the clapping of hands 
and stamping of feet, made her pause. 

‘‘What is it?’’ she inquired, curiously. 

“Oh, that’s the Interlude,” he replied, “I 
heard them say it was the best that Heywood 
ever wrote; but, to my ears it is nothing more 
than senseless jargon of the heavy English type. 
Pah ! these English.” He shrugged his shoulders 
expressively. 

She laughed, “Poor Jacques, thou never 
couldst make head or tail of English.” “Nor 
ever wish to,” he joined in, briskly; then, com- 
ing nearer he put his arm around her waist and 
sighed prodigiously, “Marie, when do we re- 
turn to France?” His homesick heart was in 
his throat; the gaiety about him fell away, one 
could swear that his eyes were full of tears. . . 

She pillowed his head for an instant on her 
plump shoulder, as a mother would her child, 
“Poor boy, sooner perhaps than we think; but 

133 


The Daughters of Suffolk 


tell me Jacques at what hour do they begin the 
bal masque?*^ 

He raised his head, half ashamed of his 
emotion and thought for a moment. “At ten 
o’clock the musicians begin,” he said. 

“And when do they unmask she questioned 
further. 

“When the Abbey bells ring midnight,” he 
replied. 

“Then I have much to do,” she said, as she 
sprang swiftly from his arms and tripped down 
the long corridor. At the turn she looked back 
and kissed her hand to him with a gesture that 
was full of meaning. 


XL 

FOREBODINGS 


S Katharine’s rage sub- 
sided her mind began to 
present to her mental 
vision the unfortunate 
scenes through which she 
had just passed. And, 
as she reviewed the events which had culmi- 
nated in her mock marriage to Herbert, for so 
she stilLregarded it, she saw clearly how every- 
thing had been arranged to entrap her, by those 
whom she claimed most of all as her natural 
guardians and protectors. 

When her father, whom she loved, had an- 
nounced publicly that he had tricked his daugh- 
ter into unwilling wedlock, that moment the 
love she had for him changed to contemptuous 
indignation. She recognized the Duke’s author- 
ity as head of his household; and had he com- 
manded her to marry Herbert, she would still 
have retained for him her love and respect, al- 

135 



The Daughters 


though she might not have obeyed him. But, to 
be led into a trap, step by step and all the while 
protesting } Then there was the shameful pub- 
licity of it all; how her friends would laugh at 
her, and how they might misconstrue her father’s 
wretched play ? She imagined that she could 
hear them whispering in the corners of the great 
hall below; the corners in the shadows away from 
much of the noise and from the glare of the 
searching firelight. “She was bound to have 
him,” one would say: while another would shake 
her head knowingly. ‘^Aye, indeed, ever since 
his father. Sir William Herbert, was created an 
earl, my lord the duke, her father, has left no 
stone unturned.” Then they would laugh again, 
and nothing stings like ridicule. And thus they 
would say, and so forth; and, all the time they 
would be making fun of her and of the miserable 
farce that had ended for her in a loveless mar- 
riage. For now she was sure that she had no 
love for Herbert, even that she loathed him and 
never wished to see his face again. And, as her 
dislike for Herbert increased, there seemed to 
grow in her heart a longing for the friendship 
of such a man as Seymour, a man fashioned 
136 


of Suffolk 


after her own mind. Perhaps she would meet 
him in London, accidentally; and he would take 
her part, and compel them to release her from 
a compact that was hateful ? 

The thought stirred her to renewed action; 
and she arose, walked to the window and drew 
aside the curtains. Pressing her face close to 
the glass, she could barely discern the outlines 
of some trees whose dark, naked limbs shewn 
obscurely against the starless sky. 

Shivering with a nameless dread, she drew 
the curtains closely again and sank despondently 
on the (chair by her bedside. The venture on 
which seemed to hang her future appeared more 
formidable as she viewed the night through her 
casement window; the world outside of her little 
room was so large, so gray, so terrible ! 

It was indeed no easy undertaking for a girl 
of Katharine’s age and training. The mansion 
of Henry Grey was buried deep in the heart of 
a comparatively uninhabited country. It was 
located near the edge of the Charnwood forest, 
and in the centre of a park, several miles in cir- 
cumference. The park was entirely surrounded 
by a high stone wall. The building was very 

137 


The Daughters 


large and commodious and had many gables 
and turrets, in keeping with its solitary magnifi- 
cence. 

One could wander through pasture and wood- 
land, over hill and dale for ten miles without 
leaving the estate; and come to Groby Castle, 
which would have been the family residence but 
for its dilapidated condition. The forest of 
Charnwood, which belonged principally to 
Henry Grey, was more than twenty miles in 
extent. All of this vast estate was practically 
nothing more than a wilderness of waste land, 
and was entirely devoid of population. Apart 
from his own retainers there lived no other 
people in the immense tracts of land that formed 
the estate of Bradgate. Katharine’s home was 
one of the finest in all England, in the midst of 
a profound solitude. It was in the heart of 
merrie England and yet for miles around there 
was nothing but uninhabited fields and forests. 
Henry Grey was one of the landowners whom 
King Edward VI had in mind when he issued 
a proclamation, “to punish men who put plough 
ground to pasture, and Carriers over Sea of 
Victuals, if they leave not these enormities they 
138 


of Suffolk 

shall be streightly punished very shortly, so that 
they shall feel the smart of it.” 

Henry Grey had received a copy of the procla- 
mation and had laughed contemptuously. He 
was then Marquis of Dorset; a few months 
afterwards the same hand that had issued the 
proclamation created him Duke of Suffolk. 
Thus was his disobedience punished right 
smartly. Meanwhile the people, the common 
people, were not so blind but that they were 
beginning to see things for themselves. 

While Jane Grey was reading Plato in the 
original Greek, and while Katharine employed 
her leisure hours with More’s “Utopia” in 
Latin, the people were reading, in rough vigor- 
ous English, “The Wyll of the Devyll,” by 
Humphrey Powell, and many of them were 
enjoying the bitter invective and general drub- 
bing that this fearless author was administering 
to the Roman Catholic church. 

In his “Wyll” the Devil bequeaths to the 
lawyers, ‘‘two right hands to take money from 
both sides,” while lechers have left to them “a 
crafty wytte to wrest the scriptures and to make 
them serve for filthy purposes.” The same class 

139 


The Daughters 


of commoners were also reading with delight, 
a rollicking burlesque on the lower class called 
‘‘Cocke Lorells Bote’’ in which human follies 
were depicted in the characters of the butcher, 
the baker and candle-stick maker, who take a 
sort of Canterbury pilgrimage around England 
in a boat. Nor did the notorious captain of the 
“bote” omit a chance to whack at his Holiness, 
the Pope, which shows the spirit of the times. 

It was in the ale-house where the authors of 
the middle i6th century found the necessary 
atmosphere for their stories; and curiously 
enough, it was the woman who sought her 
cronies there, while her middle-class husband 
was afield. The women got drunk at taverns, 
flirted with the men, and beat their husbands 
when they remonstrated! 

The shrewd, ironical spirit of the i6th cen- 
tury was growing apace; the love of learning 
was abroad in the land. But, superstition was 
rampant; and the belief in fetishes, love charms 
and magic prevailed in England. Jugglery and 
legerdemain was pronounced miraculous; and 
magic was used to discover lost things, to bring 
back lovers, and to cure disease. Astrologers 
140 


of Suffolk 


foretold events by the position of the stars; 
mankind was hunting the philosopher’s stone 
and the fountain of youth ; people rubbed them- 
selves with magic ointment to produce dreams, 
and cured disease by drinking water from a 
skull! England was a Roman Catholic land, 
and the priests played on the poor people’s 
fears by selling them the counter charms of the 
Church. . . . 

The household of Henry Grey was Protestant, 
whether from selfish or political motives, stu- 
dents of history can judge for themselves, Jane 
being particularly sincere in her belief, while 
Katharine ? Well, she never gave the matter 
much thought. She was too intelligent to place 
absolute confidence in the prevailing supersti- 
tions, nor did she have the courage to openly 
deny their malignant influences. When she 
looked from her window into the dark night 
her imagination produced, before her mind’s 
eye, an innumerable train of ill omens that filled 
her heart with fear. Foremost of these was the 
squint-eyed friar whose ugly face seemed to peer 
at her from the outside darkness. At almost any 
hour of the day or night she could conjure 
141 


The Daughters of Suffolk 

up the face above all others that she most 
dreaded. 

At night the doors of the mansion were closed 
and barred at an early hour, as were also the 
gates of the wall surrounding the park. To pass 
these locked exits at dead of night, to traverse 
miles of lonely bridle paths through dense forests, 
to issue forth at last from her father’s estate into 
a strange land! This, is what affrighted her. 
This, is what made her strong young heart to 
melt and suffuse her face with a deathly pallor; 
so that Marie, who had quietly entered the room, 
was alarmed and ran hastily to her side. 

“Give the matter no further thought, my 
lady,” she said, encouragingly. “I have sent 
Jacques to my lord Herbert with the answer — 
‘ My lady sleeps.’ ” 


XIL 

RESOLUTION 



Y lord, young Edward 
Seymour, did not go ten 
miles towards London.’’ 
The French maid empha- 
sized the word “young” 
and confidently awaited 
developments. 


Katharine^s weariness vanished; she rushed 
to Marie and grasped that astute young woman 
by her arm, “What do you mean.?” she de- 
manded. “What do you know? Quick, Marie.” 
Her heart was bounding, her breath fluttering, 
her dignity gone. 

Marie in turn took her mistress by the 
arm and thus they stood; holding each other 
by the arms and looking into each other’s 
eyes; the one reading the other’s heart, easily, 
clearly, comprehendingly as though it were a 
printed page, the other vainly endeavoring to 
conceal it. 


143 



The Daughters 


“Mon Dieu! my mistress, but I am glad he 
is so handsome, so fine, so ’’ 

Katharine interrupted her, impetuously. She 
stamped her foot, “Marie, I command you.” 
She was a tempest, an angry goddess, a beautiful 
woman.. 

Marie quailed beneath her blazing eyes. “ It 
was Jacques who told me how my lord Seymour, 
riding in the midst of the Earl’s retainers, did 
suddenly breast his horse at those riding behind 
him, tumbling them over like German toys, and 
then ride away like mad.” The impulsive maid 
rushed against a chair and toppled it over with 
a resounding crash. “So!” she said, laughing. 
Katharine smiled faintly; and Marie attempted 
to kindle it into merriment. She put on Jacques 
blue cloak and bonnet and mimicked the luck- 
less youth, both in voice and manner, until 
Katharine burst into laughter. 

Where her courage had nearly failed, her 
sense of humor had aroused her to renewed 
hope, renewed effort; her eyes sparkled, her 
step was elastic as she moved quickly around 
the room, selecting such things as she thought 
were necessary for her sudden flight. 

144 


of Suffolk 


And, while she made her arrangements, her 
mind was full of love and anxiety for young 
Seymour. Whither had he gone How could 
she honestly communicate with him Was she 
really married to Herbert ? These questions 
kept repeating themselves over and over in the 
girl’s mind, until they wearied her with their 
monotony. 

Marie was singing softly to herself an old 
song from Bocace: 

“Que mon amour rend mon ame contente — ** 

and, every now and then, giving a sly glance at 
her mistress. 

When they had nearly completed their prepa- 
rations, the maid put Jacques cloak around her 
shoulders and fastened her hair in a tight knot 
to put on his bonnet. 

“I am going down to the hall, my lady, and 
will return with Jacques; I will come up by the 
outside stairway and will knock on your win- 
dow, so,” — She rapped three times with her 
dimpled list on the casement, — ‘‘ then everything 
will be ready, and we shall depart.” 

“But Marie, how can we leave at night?” 

145 


TO 


The Daughters 


Katharine shuddered as she imagined that she 
saw the black friar’s face at the window. ‘‘ It 
is so dark and cold; and we must ride through 
those dreadful forests alone, just you and I.” 

“And Jacques,” interrupted Marie, quickly. 
“Oh, Jacques is so brave and strong; he 
would kill any body who would hurt us.” She 
nodded affirmatively in reply to Katharine’s 
inquiring glance. “Mon Dieu, yes my lady, 
Jacques is determined.” She glided from the 
room leaving Katharine alone. 

When she reached the lower hall, the uproar 
was deafening. The guests were still eating 
and drinking as though they would never have 
enough. Some of the younger men were ringing 
bells, blowing horns and kissing the girls, whose 
hysterical shrieks added a high pitch to the 
universal clamor. 

This was the period of the Pagan Renais- 
sance, when as Taine says: — “Man adored 
himself and there indured no life within him 
but that of paganism.” They feasted, and 
drank and made merry as they were encouraged 
to do by their teachers and their heroes from 
pagan Greece and Rome. 

146 


of Suffolk 


A few still clung to the Bible, and the truth 
was in them, but they were but few as compared 
with the masses, who followed after strange gods. 

Ascham was discoursing upon this subject 
amidst a circle of admiring friends, who had 
withdrawn somewhat from the noisy tumult. 

“We have the Italians to blame,” he said 
thoughtfully, “for our own bad manners; our 
youth do read of their ill life in many books 
translated into English and to be had in every 
shop in London.” 

“Aye, so they do,” joined Aylmer, “there 
are more of these books, ungodly and frivolous, 
set out in print to catch the youth, than ever 
before; I have seen and read some of them, from 
curiosity.” 

Ascham snapped the lid of his tankard, as if 
to emphasize his disapproval. 

“Even so,” he said, emphatically. “They 
have in more esteem the triumph of Petrarch, 
than the Genesis of Moses: they make more 
account of Tully's writings, than Saint Paul’s 
epistles; more of a jest of Rabelais, than a story 
of the Bible.” His eyes were roving in disappro- 
bation over the roystering crowd of revellers, 

. 147 


The Daughters 


when his attention was arrested by the peculiar, 
undulating and graceful carriage of a youth, 
who, in a long blue cloak and black mask was 
approaching his table. Ascham’s gaze remained 
even more fixed as he caught sight of a dainty, 
well-turned, pair of ankles and a neatly fitting 
pair of French shoes, that were in fair view 
below the hem of the cloak. 

“By my faith,” he said, nudging his neigh- 
bor, “I never saw a more shapely ” His 

remarks were cut short by the youth, who 
stopped in front of the table and timidly sur- 
veyed the group. 

“Master Ascham.?” came from behind the 
mask, in very poor English, “ I would very much 
like him to see, alone.” 

Ascham arose from his seat and winked 
covertly to his friends. 

“At your service. Mademoiselle,” he replied, 
in perfectly correct French as he moved to her 
side, and Marie nearly grew dizzy with fright. 

“Then you knew that I was not a man ?” she 
asked, nervously; as they walked into an adjoin- 
ing alcove. 

Ascham’s glance again followed the lines of 
148 


of Suffolk 


the blue cloak; from the silver buckle at the 
collar, even to the hem. ‘‘Aye, I know a woman 
when I see one,’* he asserted confidently. 

“Mon Dieu,” exclaimed poor Marie, desper- 
ately — “But, I must know, for the sake of my 
mistress.” Then she lifted her mask sufficiently 
high to disclose a bewitching pair of red lips, 
flanked by two rows of white teeth, they were 
most enticing. 

“’Ware the mistletoe,” said Ascham looking 
aloft, but, she deftly stepped aside and frowned. 
“No mistletoe. Master Ascham, it is more seri- 
ous,” she began, pleading. “My mistress says 
that you know everything. Tell me honestly 
how far will the Council go in the matter relating 
to the Duke of Somerset ? ” 

Ascham started violently, and clapped a hand 
over the enticing mouth. “ Chut ! ” he exclaimed 
impatiently, “for less curiosity than that, a 
woman might lose her head. Beware of matters 
that do not concern you.” He looked about 
him cautiously and added more gently, “tell 
thy mistress, whoever she may be, that Ascham 
is but a poor scholar and that he has no knowl- 
edge of state affairs.” 


149 


The Daughters 


He bowed politely, and returning to the table 
rejoined his friends. 

Marie stood looking after him for a moment 
and shrugged her shoulders. “ Beast, Cochon 
she said, scornfully. Then she mingled with 
the throng of maskers in her quest for Jacques. 

She was not long in finding him; scarcely had 
she reached the other side of the hall, when she 
felt a light touch on her arm. 

“I saw thee in close converse with Master 
Ascham,” he said, jealously. “Thou hast ever 
some one to divert thy mind.’’ 

She turned her back to him, petulantly. 
“Mon Dieu, must a body converse with one 
only ? Have done and follow me quickly.” 

She moved rapidly away, in and out amongst 
the maskers, with Jacques at her heels. When 
they had gained the courtyard she drew him to 
one side and informed him of her mistress’ con- 
templated flight. 

“Take three good horses from the stables,” 
she instructed him. “ It matters not to whom 
they belong, and wait for us at the far end of the 
bridge that crosses the creek. Hide there in the 
shrubbery and wait for our signal, so.” She 
150 


of Suffolk 


drew a small silver whistle from a chain, hang- 
ing to her belt, and blew it softly; it might have 
been the sighing of the wind, that had risen and 
was blowing away the rain clouds. 

Jacques squeezed her arm, tenderly, ‘‘All 
right, little one, I shall be there; and then ” 

“And then,'’ she repeated, “We ride to Lei- 
cester, where my lady has made further arrange- 
ments." 

“Thou wert always great for planning," said 
Jacques, admiringly. “Shall I take a few 
belongings with me ? " 

“Whatever thou hast of value," she advised 
him. “We may journey for some days." So 
saying she glided away from the shadows to- 
wards the mansion, to make her preparations, 
for — as she hoped — the flight to France. 


XIII. 

HIGH MIDNIGHT 



TORTLY before mid- 


night of that same Christ- 
mas day, Katharine Grey 
sat before the dying 
embers of her fire in 
deep thought. She had 


firmly resolved to leave the protection of her 
father’s roof, in fact she had arrived at that 
point in her process of reasoning where there 
seemed to be no alternative. She was convinced 
in her mind, that the hasty marriage to young 
Herbert was simply part of the political plot, 
entered into by her father with William Herbert, 
the rich Earl of Pembroke, and Dudley, the 
more powerful Duke of Northumberland; but 
as to their ulterior motives she was unable to 
arrive at any conclusion. 

She knew that the plot concerned, also, her 
sister Jane, for they had frequently discussed 
the matter together; and, the understanding 


152 


The Daughters of Suffolk 

reached, which Katharine had invariably re- 
fused to approve, or to consider, contemplated 
her marriage to Henry Herbert on the same day 
that Jane would marry Guilford Dudley. That 
her sudden union to Herbert, under pretence 
of a play, was the result of her recalcitrant 
demeanor towards him, she had not the shadow 
of a doubt; and her resentment augmented the 
longer she suffered her memory to recall the 
humiliating circumstances. Therefore, she 
would not live with him, that was definitive; 
and to avoid him she must leave her father’s 
house, that was equally determinate. 

These conclusions had been formed, and her 
plans had all been arranged, but Katharine still 
sat before the fire, in deep thought; for a more 
serious problem to her, than any she had as yet 
attempted to solve lay before her. Beside her 
on the floor were the bags, which she had so 
laboriously packed, with the articles which she 
thought necessary to take with her on her 
journey. Amongst other things, these included 
her horn-book; a Venetian mirror of most 
elaborate and costly workmanship; some very 
delicate pieces of lace, and a jar of sweet-meats; 

153 


The Daughters 


a package of love letters from Seymour, and an 
English Bible. There was also a heavy cut 
glass bottle of lavender, at that time a fashion- 
able perfume, and some intimate objects of 
personal adornment. The coiffure was an 
elaborate affair in those days, and Katharine’s 
selection included also the various contrivances 
of v/ire, wool, and other materials used in its 
construction. 

These, to her mind, necessary things, took 
up so much space in her travelling bags, and 
their selection had caused her so much thought 
and indecision, that when she came to view 
her wardrobe her strength entirely vanished, 
and she sank helplessly on the low stool before 
the fire. 

The problem that faced Katharine was by 
no means an easy one. During the sixteenth 
century there prevailed a spirit of pride and 
ostentation, of lavish display, and of elaborate 
and costly dressing, such as had not before been 
seen in England. The costumes that properly 
belonged to a lady of Katharine’s rank would 
have been worth a small fortune, and the proper 
packing of them into large bags, or “mails,” as 

154 


WILTON : SEAT OF THE EARL OF PEMBROKE 





of Suffolk 

they were called, would have required the ser- 
vices of Marie for several days. Of course 
Katharine had no intention of taking all of her 
wardrobe with her; but she had resolved to pre- 
sent a creditable appearance — she must have 
something to wear! But what shall she take 
The question was hard of solution, for the gowns 
of that period included the wide flowing, stiffly 
formed vertugalle, or as it was called in England, 
the farthingale of which ‘‘the sleeves were 
formed of rolls, very large at the shoulder and 
diminishing as they descended to the wrist, so 
as to present an object anything but graceful. 
The head emerged from a vast ruff or frill sup- 
ported by wires, which gave it the form of a fan; 
it was called a fraise, and was made to rise be- 
hind more than a foot above the head.” 

The trains or tails to these dresses were extrav- 
agantly long, and were proportioned to the 
degree of nobility of the wearer; those of Kath- 
arine’s wardrobe had a trailing length of at 
least seven yards ! Of necessity, these full dress 
creations required a maid or page follower to 
lift them up. 

These gowns, or farthingales, Stubbes declares 

155 


The Daughters 


were “some of silke, some of velvet, some of 
grograine, some of taffatie, some of scarlet, and 
some of fine clothe of ten, twenty, or forty shil- 
lings of a yarde. But if the whole gowne be not 
of silke or velvet, then the same shall be laide 
with lace, two or three fingers broode, all over 
the gowne, or else the most parte; or if not so, 
as lace is not fine enough sometimes, then it 
must be garded with great gardes of velvet, 
every garde fower or sixe fingers brood at the 
least, and edged with costly lace; and as these 
gownes be of divers and sundry colours, so are 
they of divers fashions, chaunging with the 
moone, for some be of new^ fashion, some of the 
olde, some of thys fashion, and some of that, 
some with sleeves hanging downe to their skirtes, 
trailing on the ground and cast over their shoul- 
ders like cowe tails. Some have sleeves much 
shorter, cut up the arme, and poincted with 
silke ribbons very gallantly tied with tru-love 
knottes, for so they call them. . . Some have 

capes reachyng down to the middest of their 
backes, faced with velvet, or els with some fine, 
wrought silke taflFatie, at the least, and fringed 
about very bravely: and to shut up ah a worde, 
156 


of Suffolk 


some are pleated and rinsled downe the backe 
wonderfully, with more knacks than I can de- 
clare.” .... 

“Then have theypetticoates,” Stubbes con- 
tinues, “of the best clothe that can be bought, 
and of the fayrest dye that can be made. And 
sometimes they are not of clothe neither, that 
is thought too base, but of scarlet, grograine, 
taffatie, silke and such like, fringed about the 
skirtes with silke fringe, of chaungeable colour. 
But whiche is more vayne, of whatsoever their 
petticoates be, yet must they have kirtles, for 
so they call them, either in silke, velvette, gro- 
graine, taffatie, sassen, or scarlet, bordered 
with gardes, lace, fringe, and I cannot tell what 
besides; so that, when they have all their goodly 
robes upon them, women seem to be the smallest 
part of themselves.” .... 

“Their netherbockes and stockings,” this 
eminent Puritan writes, ‘‘are either of silke, 
jeansey, worsted, crewell, or at least, of as fine 
yearne, thread, or clothe, as is possible to be 
hadde: yes, they are not ashamed to weare hose 
of all kinds of chaungeable colors, as green, red, 
white, russet, tawny, and els what. . . Then 

157 


The Daughters 


these delicate hosen must be cunningly knit, 
and curiously indented in every point with 
quirks, clockes, open seame, and everything els 
accordingly, whereto they have crooked shoes, 
pinsuets, pantoffles, and slippers; some of blacke 
velvet, some of white, some of Spanishe leather, 
and some of English, stitched with silke, and 
embrodered with golde and silver all over the 
foot, with other gew-gaws innumerable; all of 
which if I should endeavor myself to expresse, 
I might with like facilitie number the sands of 
the sea, the starres in the skie, or the grasse 
upon the earth, so infinite and innumerable be 
their abuses/’ 

One can easily see how formidable and per- 
plexing was the question of clothing, luggage, 
or impedimenta, confronting Katharine when 
she began the selection of suitable apparel. 
With a sigh she turned from these to a costly 
collection of long handled feather fans, from 
which after much irresolution she selected one 
that was covered with mother-of-pearl, as a 
proper ornament, and useful article, for her 
journey to France. She was vainly endeavoring 
to fit the long handle to the saddle bags, when 

158 


)f Suffolk 


her attention was arrested by Marie’s three 
knocks on the casement window. 

“Impossible,” she exclaimed, desperately, 
“I am not nearly ready.” Then she passed 
around the various objects that littered the floor, 
and raised the window latch. The casement 
opened outwardly, and as the sill was very low, 
Marie easily stepped over it and entered the 
room. 

“Mon Dieu! my lady!” she protested, “we 
have but half an hour until midnight mass, and 
after that it will be too late.” 

As she spoke, her glance went past her young 
mistress to the various heaps of feminine apparel 
spread out on the bed, on the chairs and benches, 
on the tables, on the floor, piled up in dire con- 
fusion; until there was scarcely a space left 
unincumbered. 

In the middle of the room stood Katharine, 
her hair loosely undone and threatening to fall 
at any moment, her face flushed with the unusual 
exertion, and her whole manner distracted and 
despairing. 

“Marie,” she said, half crying with vexation, 
“We cannot start to-night. It is impossible.” 

159 


The Daughters 


The little maid, seeing the outlines of her 
beloved France to grow fainter came perilously 
near to uttering an impatient outcry; but, her 
good sense returning, she merely shrugged her 
shoulders, and laid aside her bundle, and the 
long blue cloak in which she had been enveloped. 

“ So — ’’ she smiled, patiently, — “ Then I 
must put the room in order, in case my lord 
Herbert ” 

She got no further, when Katharine stepped 
nimbly across the various piles of impedimenta 
that lay strewn in her way; until she had reached 
the long blue cloak that her maid had discarded. 
Throwing it hastily across her shoulders, she 
made for the casement window and would have 
stepped out upon the stone stairway, had not 
Marie caught her skirts. 

“Pardon, my mistress, but in truth the court 
yard below is no fitting place for my lady Kath- 
arine alone, at this hour.’’ 

Katharine turned on her, indignantly. “ Haste 
then,” she commanded, “and stop thy senseless 
prittle-prattle, which only consumes our pre- 
cious time and does us no good.” 

Having accomplished her purpose, Marie 
i6o 


of Suffolk 


set to work right quickly, bringing order out of 
chaos in an incredibly short time. Discarding 
Katharine’s list of necessary articles, she placed 
in their stead such things as her experience and 
training suggested would be suitable for the 
journey. Then she selected from Katharine’s 
wardrobe a warm, comfortable, travelling cos- 
tume, quilted and lined with soft furs; and skil- 
fully assisted her mistress in dressing. 

“Pardon my lady,” she said, timidly, “but 
no doubt you have your purse about you, a belt 
perhaps — and your jewels ?” 

“Not a shilling,” said Katharine, blankly, 
and staring at her maid with increasing concern 
as the situation dawned upon her. 

“I thought perhaps you might forget,” said 
Marie, lightly, as she drew from her pocket a 
soft leather belt; and, running hurriedly to a 
small closet that was concealed in the chimney, 
she drew forth a jewel case, and emptied its con- 
tents into the little belt. 

This done, she deftly strapped the contrivance 
around her shapely leg, and stood upright, 
laughing. “Now,” she said with a sigh of 
relief, “ We are ready.” 


The Daughters 


Once more Katharine moved towards the 
window. “Peste!” said Marie, contemptu- 
ously, “ I have no mind left, I forget everything.” 
She flew to her bundle and drew forth a long 
blue cloak, similar to the one that Katharine 
had so suddenly appropriated. This she 
handed to her mistress, but the latter turned, 
impatiently. 

“What need have we to waste the time in 
exchanging garments that are exactly alike I 
Come quickly Marie, I would be gone.” 

Marie pointed to the broad stain that dis- 
figured her cloak, “It is not comely,” she pro- 
tested, as she fitted the other to her mistress. 
Katharine moved around nervously, while Marie 
hastily arranged the bed, with a bundle under 
the coverings, to counterfeit the form of her 
sleeping mistress. Then she placed the night 
light, a roughly constructed mass of tallow, in an 
iron holder, on the table; and drawing the bed 
curtains she unbolted the door that led into lady 
Jane’s apartments. 

“Now,” she said, confidently, “We shall not 
be missed until daylight, at the very earliest.” 

Carrying the saddle bags between them, they 
162 


of Suffolk 


went forth, through the casement window, and 
carefully closed it behind them. They had 
scarcely done so when the Abbey bells pealed 
out the midnight mass. This was the signal 
for unmasking; and Marie crossed herself as 
the clear tones of the bells echoed, back and fro, 
between the old walls of the mansion. “We 
start not a moment too soon,” she whispered to 
Katharine, as the noise issuing from the hall 
below seemed like bedlam, broken loose. 

The uproar found a lusty response from the 
stable boys, and those who did duty in the court- 
yard. Katharine and her maid were quaking 
with fear as they hurriedly walked amongst the 
crowd — mingling with a swarm of laughing, jok- 
ing, cursing, and drunken men and boys, who 
thronged in every vantage point of door and 
window. 

As they hastened by these various groups, 
and had gained some distance away from the 
buildings, the light from the beacons and torches 
grew dimmer, and they were obliged to pro- 
ceed over the uneven and muddy ground with 
more caution. 

“If anyone should accost us,” Marie cau- 
163 


The Daughters 


tioned her companion, in a low tone of voice, 
“ you have but to mention the name of my lord 
Herbert, who as lord of Misrule — ’’ “Stop!” 
Katharine drew herself up a full head taller 
than her maid, and faced her in the semi-dark- 
ness; Marie knew that her eyes were blazing, 
though she could scarcely see them. “I shall 
do no such thing,” she said, heartily, “and I 
shall take offense,” she added, warningly, 
“if you ever mention the name again in my 
presence.” 

Marie dropped her holding of the saddle bags. 
“Then my lady will please remain here,” she 
cautioned, “while I go yonder to the gate alone; 
there is but one name other than our master’s, 
the Duke himself, that will open that gate 
to-night.” 

Katharine glanced nervously, as far as she 
could see around the vast park, and then ahead 
at the blazing cresset that flared in its iron 
basket, over against the gate. 

“ I shall go with you, Marie,” she said, 
promptly, “And it matters little, after all, what 
authority you invoke, so that our plans do not 
miscarry; even Herbert may be mentioned, in 
164 


of Suffolk 

a case of extreme necessity,” she added, reluc- 
tantly. 

When they came closer within the circle of 
light made by the tresset, they were roughly 
hailed by Adrian Stokes, the gate keeper. He 
was a gnarled and twisted, a cross-grained man; 
one upon whose spirit the festivities of Christmas 
acted contrariwise and in exact proportion. 
“Whither away, you brace of night owls?” he 
shouted to them, in a voice that was uncommonly 
cross and peevish. 

Katharine dropped her end of the saddle-bags, 
and stood speechless with astonishment; to hear 
herself so accosted, by one of her father’s lowest 
servants, was beyond her immediate under- 
standing. 

But Marie stepped quickly forward, and 
snapped her fingers under the man’s nose. 

“Zut!” she said in high dudgeon, “A brace 
of night owls, is it ? And thus you dare speak 
to gentlemen who wear the Herbert livery! 
Open yon gate, thou crooked stick, before we 
call our comrades.” 

Adrian held up his lanthorn, the better to 
examine the young gallants, and when he saw 

165 


The Daughters of Suffolk 


that they wore the long blue cloaks, similar to 
a hundred others that had passed his way that 
day, his manner softened. 

‘‘My light is not so good,’’ he mumbled, then 
he added firmly, “Nevertheless I open the gate 
to none at this hour, save on the Duke’s own 

y* 


warrant. 


XIV. 

THE FLIGHT 


ERE was confusion to all 
of Marie’s careful plan- 
ning; she could have wept 
with rage and disappoint- 
ment, as her snapping 
black eyes searched the 
gate keeper’s churlish face, for some hint that 
would bend him to her will. But he was stolid, 
and immovable; his physiognomy was as void 
of intelligence, as fixed and as hardened as the 
bark of a tree. 

But a circumstance occurred, trifling in itself, 
but to Marie’s quick wit worth an inspiration, 
that gave her tongue a lash with which she 
could sting the man into activity. It was but 
a single stroke, a sound coming through the 
misty air, from the deep-throated Abbey bell, 
a single stroke that marked the first interval of 
the mass. 

The sound had not died away when her ready 
167 



The Daughters 


eyes detected a fluttering movement of the 
man’s hand, as he piously crossed himself. In 
a moment she had conspicuously followed his 
example, and then stood, with bowed head,*the 
incarnation of Catholic humility. 

“ I did wrong to misjudge thee, and thou but 
doing thy duty,” she began, sweetly, “it were 
better, had we simply declared our wish to 
attend the mass.” 

Adrian’s features relaxed somewhat their 
rigidity; but he still regarded the boy, as he 
thought her, suspiciously. 

“And when did Sir William’s retainers turn 
Catholic he asked her curiously. 

She moved closer to him, and lowered her 
voice. “And how long has the Duke of Suffolk’s 
gate keeper been an obedient son of the Romish 
Church.?” she demanded. 

The man raised his heavy oaken stave as if 
to strike her, and then slowly lowered it. “ Hold 
thy wagging tongue,” he answered hotly, “there 
is some one approaching.” 

Marie turned in time to see a burly figure 
emerging from the darkness. As it came closer 
into the circle of light, there was a stifled scream 

i68 


of Suffolk 

from Katharine, as she recognized the ugly 
features, and the ungainly form of friar Grouche. 

He was tottering in his gait, and swaying 
from side to side; as^ though he would lose his 
balance at every step. 

“Holy Mother!” exclaimed Marie, fervently, 
as she linked her arm through Katharine’s and 
turned her from the light. 

The friar scarcely noticed them, as he ad- 
vanced singing, lustily: 

“Qui estis in convivio — ” 

His voice was husky and rasping with much 
drink. Having arrived at the gate, and finding 
it locked, he gave tongue as one nigh bereft of 
his senses. “Ho! Adrian,” he roared, “open 
this accursed gate, or perdition awaits thee.” 

“In France,” whispered Marie, “L’abbe 
Dumont could have opened yon gate with a 
prayer.” 

The gatekeeper turned the bolt with an iron 
key that hung from his belt. 

“Your Reverence,” he said, dutifully. 

By making a supreme effort the friar managed 
to lurch through the opening, without hitting 
169 


T*A<? Daughters 


either post; as he disappeared into the friendly 
shades of the forest road he was still singing: 

“Qui estis in convivio — ** 

Adrian stood holding open the great iron 
gate. “If you are coming,” he said roughly to 
Katharine and Marie, “move your legs, and be 
quick about it.” 

As they picked up the saddle bags, one at 
each end, and passed through the gate; the 
keeper accosted them — “You go heavily laden 
to the mass?” “Aye,” returned Marie, flip- 
pantly, for she had no more fear of him, “the 
burden of our sins is intolerable.” 

Adrian closed the gate with a loud clang that 
meant everything, but he said nothing. 

As they went further from the light into the 
forest, the darkness became more dense; and 
the young women, unaccustomed to such a 
journey, found it a difficult matter to keep in 
the open road. 

“I would that we were safely out of this,” 
said Katharine, nervously, as she peered ahead 
as far as she was able, into the forest. “Where 
do we meet Jacques and the horses ?” 

170 


)f Suffolk 


‘‘At the far end of the bridge, my lady,” 
replied Marie. “Doubtless you remember a 
group of hawtborne ” 

“Help! Oh Help!” interrupted Katharine, 
as she uttered a sudden, sharp, outcry. 

“Sacre! What is it.?” exclaimed Marie, as 
they came to a halt. The little maid was scared 
almost out of her senses. 

“Oh Marie,” gasped her mistress. 

“What is it?” repeated Marie, irritably, 
“Mon Dieu, I see nothing. But she crossed 
herself quickly; and is it not well known that 
St. Sulpicius, while a mere child, went to pray 
by night at a ruined church near his father’s 
house; two black demons, who haunted the 
ruin, would have scared him from his devotions, 
but he drove them away with the sign of the 
cross. And was it not so with St. Frodobert, 
who in the same manner drove away a devil 
that used to stop him on his way to school; and 
the Belgian St. Juetta, when she went to her 
devotions at night ? 

Marie crossed herself, while every nerve in her 
body tingled with fear. Then, she raised her 
hand and brushed aside a low-hanging bough 
171 


The Daughters 

that had entangled its forked ends in Katharine’s* 
head gear. 

‘‘Oh Marie,” the latter laughed, hysterically, 
“ I was sure that the friar’s great, dirty fingers 
were in my hair.” 

“Zut! the beast,” said Marie, “the old 
Jacobin, if he should dare ” 

“Hush,” said her mistress, trembling, as she 
grasped her companion’s arm. “Oh, I know 
there is something prowling near us!” 

They stood still, intently listening to the faint 
sound of trickling drops of water that fell from 
the overladen trees. The grey darkness was so 
intense, that they could see only the dim out- 
lines of the leafless branches; but there was no 
under-brush, or wild growth to impede their 
progress, and they had often traversed the forest 
road together. 

As they proceeded, cautiously, making their 
way through the forest, the night became darker, 
and the wind sighed more heavily through the 
naked limbs overhead; the sounds of revelry, 
and of human habitation, had become less dis- 
tinct, while a turn in the road had closed their 
view of the house and its twinkling lights. It 
172 


of Suffolk 


was scarcely a mile, that intervened between 
them and the place where Jacques and the horses 
were concealed, but it seemed to the timid girls 
as though ten times that distance. The different 
turns in the road, that were so familiar when 
travelled by daylight, became less distinct in 
the overhanging gloom of a stormy night. At 
each fork in the road they would become con- 
fused, and selecting first the one to the right, 
then the one to the left, would finally agree on 
the one that seemed to be the least dark and 
gloomy. This method of procedure, while 
giving them the advantage of two evils, led them 
far astray; so that they became tired and greatly 
exhausted. The burden that they carried to- 
gether appeared to grow heavier, and they were 
obliged to stop more frequently, and, putting the 
bags on the ground, to rest and recover their 
strength. 

At one of these intervals, Katharine’s high 
mettle neared the verge of complete overthrow. 
“I can go no farther,” she moaned, ‘There is 
no strength in me. We must have walked for 
ten miles.” She sank down on the leather bags, 
at the foot of a wide spreading oak, and pulled 

173 


The Daughters 


Marie to a seat beside her. So far the latter had 
kept her courage, and indeed much that be- 
longed to her mistress, by humming light catches 
of old songs, and droll sayings, the humor of 
which had helped them on their way; but now 
Marie was silent. Her spirits were gone; her 
gaiety overwhelmed by the dreariness of their 
surroundings, by fatigue, by the consciousness 
that her plans had miscarried, and that Jacques 
could nowhere be found. She could say nothing, 
but sitting closer beside her mistress she put her 
arm around her, she was overcome with drowsi- 
ness, with a sense of utter exhaustion; so much 
so, that in a moment later she was asleep on 

Katharine’s shoulder 

Now, the vague white light of a summer morn- 
ing illumines the mist, and the bare limbs of the 
trees have become clothed in beautiful green 
leaves, green of every conceivable shade. In a 
dazzling aurora of pale golden light, the tender 
things wave and flutter before the gentle breath 
of dawn. With the murmuring rustle of the 
leaves, the faint chirps of sleepy birds mingle; 
at first with but occasional notes, and then, 
with ever increasing numbers, until the fresh 
174 


of Suffolk 

morning air is full of harmony, — still Marie 
sleeps 1 

The pale golden light has changed to a rosy 
hue, a beautiful light that tips the edges of the 
white blossoms in the orchard, with a radiance 
such as no artist has ever painted. And just 
beyond the orchard, half covered with vines, is 
a little cottage, a stone cottage with a red tiled 
roof; and it really seemed to Marie as if she was 
now standing in the large garden, that adjoined 
the Manor. And as she stood in the pathway, 
the birds fluttered down from the trees to her 
feet, and picked up the crumbs of bread that 
she threw to them. 

And Jacques was on one knee, trimming the 
borders of sweet-smelling shrub; and he peeped 
into the baskets that she was carrying, Jacques 
was always teasing. . . . 

And as she went her way, down the gravelled 
walk, he waved his hand to her: 

“Bon jour, Marie, bon jour.” .... 

Then she awoke, and was greatly ashamed. 
In a moment she had gently withdrawn her 
hand from Katharine’s waist, and, standing up 
in the cold grey light of approaching day, she 

175 


The Daughters 

took careful note of her surroundings. And as 
her eyes strained to penetrate the mist, it seemed 
to her that the grey skies, as seen through the 
openings, between the trees, was not all of a 
density, but that a solid mass of darker color 
spread its square lines before her vision. 

“My lady,” she exclaimed, hastily, “my 
heavy eyes play me the stupid. Is yonder dark 
mass the Castle Groby, perhaps?” 

Katharine ran quickly to her side, and looked 
in the direction pointed out to her by the maid. 
“Groby Castle,” she said apprehensively, “sure- 
ly we could not have wandered so far from our 
route.” But as she spoke, a light morning 
breeze blew away the mist, and for a moment 
revealed, but too plainly, the ruined old Castle, 
that would have been a welcome sight to Kath- 
arine, under' other circumstances. 

The dilapidated old structure was of stone, 
and was falling away, in its surroundings of utter 
ruin and neglect. At one time, within its strong 
heart, it had sheltered those who claimed its 
protection; but now they had all died. . . . The 
decayed remains of walls and portcullis, of 
turrets and tower, were distinguished only by 
176 


of Suffolk 


the skeletons of their former fashion. In the 
great hall, that once blazed with light from an 
enormous fire in the "centre, while all around 
were seated friends, retainers, and guests, there 
now remained nought save a gloomy darkness; 
damp, mouldy, and ill-smelling. 

Over all had crept, with its stifling, evil em- 
brace, the English ivy; with such luxuriant 
growth, that it seemed to have destroyed the 
support to which it clung. . . . 

As the two young women stood watching the 
old castle, with mixed feelings of relief and 
anxiety, they noticed a thin spiral of smoke as- 
cending, sluggishly, from one of the inner courts. 

Their first impulse was to turn back, and to 
secrete themselves once again in the forest; but 
their fatigue was so great, and their terror so 
increased, as they gazed into its gloomy recesses, 
that they decided to go forward, and to claim 
protection of whomsoever it might be. 

‘‘It is my father’s castle,” said Katharine, 
bravely, “and, there can be none other than his 
friends and retainers, on the domain under a 
heavy penalty. We must have rest and shelter 
for awhile; for indeed I can go no further.” 

12 177 


The Daughters 


So saying, Katharine and her maid advanced 
to the castle, following a sort of footpath, that 
led through the ruins to an inner court yard. 
In one corner of this court was an archway, that 
was formerly an entrance to a lofty hallway. 
The arch was intact for a distance of probably 
a hundred feet. Beyond that, as could be seen 
by the light that came through the broken roof, 
was a great hall of the castle. 

As the tired maids drew nearer to the arch, 
they discovered the lire from which they had 
seen the ascending smoke. It was burning 
briskly, as though recently replenished with 
wood; and over it hung, suspended by a chain 
from a roughly constructed tripod, a small iron 
kettle, from which arose, in the keen damp air 
of the morning, a smell so unsavory as to cause 
a feeling of disgust that approached to faintness. 
In front of the fire was a rough attempt of con- 
struction, resembling a table and bench; made 
of some old timber and loose stones piled unskil- 
fully together. On the table was an earthen jug, 
containing water, and a piece of dark-looking, 
mouldy bread. What was in the pot can only 
be conjectured, but, a starving man will eat rats! 
178 


of Suffolk 


‘‘Ah, Mon dieu!” exclaimed Marie, as her 
quicker senses discovered the miserable creature; 
dirty, ragged, unkempt, v^hom they had dis- 
turbed in the preparation of his morning meal. 
At the sound of her voice the creature turned 
from his crouching position over the fire, and 
uplifted to their gaze the face of a man. It was 
the face of a man who had suffered all *‘the 
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” A 
face waxen and ghastly white, from which all 
his heart’s blood had receded; a face in which 
were set two lustreless eyes, that stared at the 
young girls, without recognition, without emo- 
tion, without apparently understanding. 

“Martin, the slave,” said Katharine, as her 
eye rested for an instant on the symbol “ S ” that 
had been burned with a hot iron on the man’s 
white forehead. And Marie blessed herself, 
furtively, as the fellow tried to conceal an iron 
band around his neck, by drawing up the ragged 
edges of his doublet. 


XV. 

MARTIN, THE SLAVE 


N England, during this 
period, slavery still ex- 
isted. Not merely the 
holding in bondage of 
an inferior race, as the 
negroes, but of English- 
men, born on English soil. 

Children were sold into slavery by their 
parents, under stress of poverty. Thieves were 
sold, like cattle in the market, as a punishment 
for their crimes; some who were not thieves 
were sold to pay their debts. 

Laborers, English born, who worked in the 
coal and salt mines, were legally bound, on 
entering the mines, to perpetual service there; 
and in case the property, on which the mines 
were located, was sold ; the right to their services 
passed, without any expressed grant, to the pur- 
chaser. The sons of the miners could follow 
no occupation but that of their fathers, and they 
i8o 



The Daughters of Suffolk 

were not at liberty to seek for employment any- 
where else than in the mines to which they had 
been attached by birth. 

No sooner had Edward VI. ascended the 
throne than the following statute was made: 
“That a runaway, or anyone who lived idly for 
three days, should be brought before the justices 
of the peace, and marked V with a hot iron on 
the breast, and adjudged the slave of him who 
brought him for two years. He was to take the 
slave and give him bread, water, or small drink, 
and refuse meat, and cause him to work by beat- 
ing, chaining, or otherwise; and, if within that 
space, he absented himself fourteen days, he 
was to be marked on the forehead, or cheek, by 
a hot iron with an S, and be his master’s slave 
forever; a second desertion was made felony. 
It was lawful to put a ring of iron round his 
neck, arm, or leg.” .... 

Martin, the slave, had suffered all, save the 
extreme penalty of the law; as the result of a 
life-long desire for personal freedom of action. 
His parents had worked in the coal mines at 
Newcastle, at the time of his birth; and, con- 
sequently, through no fault of his own, he had 

i8i 


The Daughters 

inherited the life of bondage under which his 
spirit chafed. 

As a boy of twelve years, he had worked in 
the loathsome darkness of the coal pits; with 
a chain that passed between his legs, and which 
was attached to a leather harness, around his 
neck and body, he had drawn the heavy cars 
of coal to the pit mouth. For years he had 
traversed those dismal entries — running along 
on all-fours, like a dog! 

Then in a fit of desperation, he ran away, and 
received the hot iron on his breast, a sizzling 
touch that left the letter V as a red scar on his 
white flesh. 

That was his first effort for liberty. Upon 
his second attempt, the cruel brand had pressed 
his tired forehead marking it with the letter S 
which stands alike for saint or sinner. 

As he sat crouching on his heels, in the manner 
peculiar to miners, his faded eyes assumed a 
look of intelligence as Katharine spoke. . . . 

“Think you,” she asked Marie, “that Jacques 
will still await us at the bridge, even after such 
an interval of time .? ” 

“Jacques will still be there,” answered Marie 
182 


of Suffolk 


confidently, “even until we arrive, whenever 
that may be, in reason.” 

“Then we can tax^this man with our com- 
mands, and bring Jacques to us. Martin, do 
you know me ? ” she asked abruptly. 

At the same time she removed the man’s 
bonnet that she had been wearing for a disguise; 
and, drawing aside the folds of the long blue 
cloak, she stood before him apparelled as a 
woman. A beautiful woman, upon whose 
healthy young face a tiresome night walk, 
through the forest, had left but little impression. 

His white face, upturned to hers, all scarred, 
and pitted with the blue marks that the sharp 
edges of flying bits of coal had left in the skin, 
assumed an expression of interest. “Aye, my 
lady,” he replied, in a strong Northumberland 
accent, “you be the lady Katharine.” As he 
spoke he glanced nervously around the ruins, 
like an animal apprehensive of capture. 

She pretended to take no notice of his sus- 
picions and went on, kindly, “I have heard it 
said, Martin, that you are a good runner.” 

The man’s features relaxed into a grin. “Aye, 
my lady,” he admitted, proudly, although the 

183 


The Daughters 

question somewhat disturbed him, ‘‘I once did 
ten miles to the hour and beat my master’s run- 
ning footman.” He arose painfully and tried 
to straighten his bent figure. 

“I am not so good a man now,” he added. 

“But you could still do the distance for me 
in, say, twice that time ?” suggested Katharine. 

“For my lady Katharine, I will do my best,” 
answered the slave, for with him, as with every 
man, woman, and child on the estate, Katharine 
was a prime favorite. 

“Thank you, Martin,” she said, graciously, 
“You will not only serve me, but will also be of 

great assistance, and ” Here she stopped 

and looked around her at the bits of old rags 
and morsels of food with which he had fur- 
nished his habitation. Then she looked frankly 
into the man’s weary eyes : 

“Tell me the truth, Martin, I will do you no 
harm, you were running away again ? ” 

The slave started violently and his white face 
grew more ghastly. He nervously fingered the 
iron band around his neck and coughed with a 
dry, choking sound. He knew as well as Kath- 
arine .that, if caught the third time, his punish- 
184 



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of Suffolk 


ment would be death. A miserable death at the 
hands of the servants and other slaves of the 
estate, who would stone him to a quivering mass 
of bruised flesh. But the spirit that had nerved 
him to make two attempts for liberty, was not 
yet quenched in the man; and he answered, 
truthfully. “ It will be freedom or death for me 
my lady, it was born in me.” 

And, somehow, as he spoke, he seemed to have 
forgotten the pain that bent his back; and he 
stood erect, while a flush of manhood tinted the 
dead whiteness of his face as the rising sun 
illumines a wintry landscape. 

Katharine’s generous heart kindled at the 
brave answer of the unfortunate wretch, branded 
and shackled who, single-handed, and in face 
of the most cruel adversity, still had the courage 
to fight on to the end. She held out her hand 
to him, as to a knight; and he, falling on his 
knees, reverently touched her fingers with his 
lips. 

“You shall be free, Martin,” she promised 
him, “if I must ask the favor with mine own 
petition to the King. . . . And now you 

can advance the matter of your liberty, and of 

185 


The Daughters 


my happiness by making all speed to the bridge 
just beyond the park gate; there, in a clump of 
hawthorn, you should find a man secreted and 
in the care of three horses. 

“ Bid him bring them to Castle Groby as fast 
as they can travel.’’ 

“And if the man should doubt the word of 
a slave.?” Martin suggested. 

“Tell him that some one awaits him who 
wears a long blue cloak, with a broad stain on 
the shoulder,” answered Marie, promptly. 

Martin tied the leather thong more securely 
around his thin body; pulled a tattered bonnet 
low down over the letter S on his forehead and 
turned to go. Then he removed his bonnet, and 
knelt again before Katharine. “May all the 
saints have you in their keeping, my lady,” he 
said, manfully. “It is not for one so ignorant 
and unskilful as I am, to walk into the lion’s 
den, and out again, alive; they will take me of 
a certainty, but — but” — ^he hesitated, as one who 
was not used to conversing with a lady, “ to die 
in the service of my lady Katharine, is to die like 
a man.” He bowed awkwardly, and again 
started on his way. But Katharine called him. 

i86 


of Suffolk 


“Stop, Oh, stop!” she commanded. “If you 

think that any such danger ” But he was 

running towards the forest, as fast as his weak- 
ened legs would carry him. In a moment he 
had disappeared into the gloomy shade, happy 
in the new life, which he hoped would end in a 
manly death. . . . 

Katharine turned to Marie, who had thrown 
the ill-smelling pot over a wall and was now 
rekindling the fire. “Oh!” she said, in pity, 
“do you think that they will indeed kill him?” 

Marie ceased from her labors and stood a 
moment, with her arms akimbo, her busy brain 
full of other problems. “Jacques might do so,” 
she said, thoughtfully, “ if he should come on him 
unexpectedly; he must be terribly cross, after 
waiting all night in the dark.” 

Katharine laughed in spite of her fears, but 
she instantly checked her mirth for her heart 
was touched by the poor slave’s devotion. “I 
would have no harm come to him on my ac- 
count,” she said, remorsefully. “Oh why did 
we send him on so dangerous a chance ?” 

“Have no care for the fellow, my lady,” 
prompted Marie. “One can visit a lion’s den 

18;^ 


The Daughters 


in safety when the animals have eaten their fill. 
There is not a man, or woman either for that 
matter at Bradgate, who has not eaten and drank 
since yesternight, until they could hold no more. 
My word for it, he will find none but sleeping 
lions on the domain this day; and before they 
awake we shall be well on our way to London.’’ 

‘‘And how soon may that be?” asked Kath- 
arine, with a sleepy yawn that implied security. 
The warmth of the fire, and a comforting con- 
viction that she had escaped from the immediate 
consequences of her sudden flight; together with 
the fact that she was familiar with the ruins of 
Groby Castle from childhood, made her sur- 
roundings appear natural; and her adventure 
more rational. 

After all, she had many good friends in 
London and if the worst should happen and she 
should be arrested upon her father’s order ? 
Even so, a runaway daughter was diflFerent 
from a runaway slave! So Katharine yawned 
again, with a sleepiness that was almost over- 
powering, while Marie made a rapid calculation 
on the tips of her pink fingers. 

“ He will be two hours, going,” she said, “ and 

i88 


of Suffolk 


half that time returning with the horses — that’s 
three; and another hour because the roads are 
heavy — that’s four hours for us to wait and to 
employ our time as best we can.” 

‘‘Had we the great clock of the abbey in 
view,” said Katharine, ruefully, “we might 
count the minutes, and so at least occupy our 
minds.” 

Then, as she held her hands outstretched be- 
fore the fire, her eyes caught the glitter of the 
ring that Herbert had placed on her finger. 
With an angry frown she was about to pull it 
from her hand, and cast it into the debris that 
surrounded her, when suddenly her mood 
changed. “It is Seymour’s ring,” she said to 
herself, softly. “I will wear it for his sake.” 

But, at a time when Marie did not observe 
her, she slipped the ring from one finger to 
another. . . . 

The mist had cleared away and a wintry sun 
was high in the heavens, before the impatient 
maidens descried in the distance a little body 
of horsemen coming towards them. They had 
just emerged from the forest, at a more distant 
point than that taken by Katharine and her 
189 


The Daughters 


maid; and .as they came on at a full gallop they 
seemed to number more than the expected 
rescue party, which at the most could only be 
Jacques with the three horses and possibly 
Martin. 

“Four horses, my lady,” said Marie, anx- 
iously, although no question had been asked. 
“And three riders,” added Katharine, who was 
almost undone with fatigue and apprehension. 

“ If — if it should be. Oh, Marie, I am so ” 

The poor girl trembled, with alternating emo- 
tions of hope and fear, as the little cavalcade, 
now in single file, checked, somewhat, their gait 
as they drew nearer to the castle. 

“Who rides ahead?” Katharine asked of 
her maid; and the question was entirely un- 
necessary, and was intended more to hide her 
feelings than for any need she had of asking, 
for her heart told her even before her eyes could 
discern his features, that the young knight, who 
rode his horse with such grace and skill, was 
Edward Seymour. 

“Katharine!” he exclaimed, as he swung 
himself lightly from his horse and handed his 
bridle rein to Jacques; but, it was said in such 
190 


of Suffolk 


a manner that there was no need of saying 
more — before the others. . . . 

When they walked outside the castle walls, 
apart from the rest, Katharine told him of her 
hopes and plans. As she finished he shook his 
head mournfully, “Thou wert brave, my Kath- 
arine, to come thus far, and to attempt a plead- 
ing before the King, but he will do naught for 
us. The same power, that has brought my 
father in disgrace to the Tower, is strong enough 
to take you back, a prisoner, to the arms of 
Herbert.” 

Katharine raised her eyes to the blue sky over- 
head, “ I will die first,” she said solemnly, and, as 
he looked into the quiet depths of her steadfast 
eyes, he knew that she had spoken the truth. 

There was silence between them as they 
strolled about the ruined old pathways, all 
overgrown with dead weeds, and debris, until 
she spoke: “There is a matter,” she began, 
and then she stopped, in some confusion. He 
looked anxiously into her crimson face, at her 
lovely disorder, at the sweeping lashes that veiled 
her eyes, “I know what you would say,” he 
promptly interpreted. 

191 


The Daughters 


‘‘How could you, when I have said nothing ?” 
she rejoined, much relieved. 

He smiled, “ I can tell by your manner, even 
before you speak; you would remind me that 
you are a married woman.” 

The words seemed to sting her, for she quiv- 
ered, and trembled as she stood with drooping 
head before him, “And would men so regard 
the maid, who suffered such wrong, such vio- 
lence, as they did to me in the hall of my father 
yesterday ? ” she asked him, speaking the words 
slowly and distinctly. 

His troubled face denoted his concern as he 
replied, “until the wrong has been undone, I 
think that men would so regard you.” 

Katharine quietly drew from her hand the 
ring, Seymour’s ring, that Herbert had placed 
on her finger, and handed it to him, “until that 
day arrives,” she said, sadly. . . . 

“Not more than an hour’s ride from the 
farthest limit of your father’s estate, there dwells 
a franklin; an honest man who holds his lands 
of the crown, and free from any feudal servi- 
tude,” explained Seymour. “To him we will 
confess our need of meat and drink; and having 
192 


ON THE ROAD TO LONDON 






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of Suffolk 

obtained some needed rest, we will journey to 
London.” 

“And the poor slave.?” said Katharine, com- 
passionately, as her eyes rested on Martin, who 
was caring for the horses. 

“I have given him enough gold to purchase 
his freedom, should he be taken,” answered 
Seymour, “there will no harm come to him.” 


13 






PART THIRD 

















XVL 

EDWARD THE KING 


N the royal apartments at 
Westminster, at a large 
table, in a room hung 
with heavy tapestries, 
and furnished with mas- 
sive furniture, sat a 
youth of scarcely sixteen years of age, reading 
aloud from a large manuscript folio. But for 
the costly style of his attire, the elaborateness 
of which, at this period, denoted the wearer’s 
rank, and his surroundings, he would have been 
considered a very ordinary looking boy; with 
small commonplace features, and of girlish 
manners. He wore a doublet of embroidered 
purple silk, over a white shirt of the same 
material, the collar of the shirt falling loosely 
over the neck of his doublet. 

Over this was a black velvet coat, or jacket, 
edged with ermine, and embroidered with silver. 
The armlets of the jacket reached only to his 
197 



The Daughters 


elbow; but below that his arms were covered 
with elaborately worked sleeves. Around his 
neck, resting low on his shoulders, was a broad 
band of exquisitely wrought filigree work, set 
with numerous and costly jewels. His bonnet, 
which was carelessly lying on the floor beside 
his chair, was a flat, turban-shaped, headgear, 
also of velvet, and ornamented with jewels; a 
short feather plume was fastened to the bonnet 
with a gold buckle, and it hung suspended above 
his left ear when he wore it. 

Although the boy’s features were ordinary, 
they were nevertheless pleasing from their 
distinctly feminine characteristics. 

His eyes were large and lustrous, and con- 
tained at all times an expression of candor and 
kindliness, that invited the confidence of those 
with whom he talked. 

But his small mouth, and pointed irresolute 
chin, denoted a vain and petulant disposition, 
one that could be easily led and even controlled 
by a stronger will. 

Such was the son of Jane Seymour, the beau- 
tiful wife of Henry VI 1 1, who gave up her life 
at his birth. Such was Edward VI, King of 
198 



KING EDWARD THE SIXTH 


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England and Supreme head of the church of 
England and Ireland. . . . 

The manuscript from which he read, was in 
his own handwriting; large, square, legible 
characters, with which he had evidently taken 
great pains and of which he was proud. On 
the other side of the table, at which sat the 
king, stood his tutor, John Cheke, Master of 
Arts, “who sought to bring him up in learning 
of Tongues, of the Scriptures, of Philosophy and 
all Liberal Sciences.” As the young king read 
aloud from his Journal, the tutor would make 
comments upon his pupil’s work. 

“In the month of May,” read Edward, “died 

the French King called Francis ” 

“Pardon, your Majesty,” corrected Master 
Cheke, gently, “but the sad occurrence of which 
you write, was in the month of March, scarce two 
months after the death of your illustrious father.” 

Edward impatiently shrugged his shoulders 
and pursed his small mouth defiantly. “I have 
written it as happening in May,” he said irri- 
tably, “and care not to change it.” And so it 
remains to this day, as anyone can see; for the 
diary, or journal has been preserved, even to the 
199 


The Daughters 


present time. Master Cheke, knowing the 
temper of his royal pupil, remained discreetly 
silent, while Edward continued to read. 

“A Parliament was called, where an uniform 
Order of Prayer was institute, before made by 
a number of Bishops and learned men gathered 
together in Windsor.” 

Master Cheke coughed cautiously; and Ed- 
ward looked up from his book. ‘‘A Parliament 
called by your Majesty,” he corrected, well 
knowing that it would be taken in good will. 

The cloud on the boyish brow cleared as he 
noted the correction, “by Me,” and his voice 
arose to a shrill treble, as he began to read his 
account of the fall of his uncle, Edward Sey- 
mour, the Duke of Somerset, Regent and Pro- 
tector; and the rise of his rival Dudley, Earl of 
Warwick, as follows: 

“In the mean season in England rose great 
Stirs, like to increase much if it had not been 
well forseen. The council, about nineteen of 
them, were gathered in London, thinking to 
meet with the Lord Protector and to make him 
amend some of his disorders. He fearing his 
state caused the Secretary ” 


200 


of Suffolk 


Master Cheke held up a hand, apologetically, 
“It might be well to say, in your Majesty’s 
name,” he suggested, diplomatically. And the 
King, exceedingly well pleased, wrote: “In 
My Name.” Then he went on, “to be sent to 
the Lords, to know for what cause they gathered 
their Powers together; and if they meant to 
talk with him, that they should come in a peace- 
able manner. The next morning being the 6th 
of October and Saturday, he commanded the 
armour to be brought down out of the armory 
of Hampton Court, about 500 Harnesses, to 
arm both his and my men, with all the gates 
of the house to be Rampeir’d, People to be 
raised; People came abundantly to the house. 
That night, with all the People, at nine or ten 
of the clock of the night, I went to Windsor and 
there was Watch and Ward kept every night.” 

John Cheke, whose sensitive nature denoted 
the scholar, rather than the soldier, or politician, 
was nervously gliding from one place to another, 
while his pupil was reading: for the face of the 
stern Protector, angry, inflexible, seemed to 
watch him from among the folds of the heavy 
curtains. It was a time when greater men than 


201 


The Daughters 


he spoke of such matters in modest whispers, 
if at all. And the loud, careless reading of 
Edward disturbed him not a little. He sought 
to placate the angry face that seemed to haunt 
the apartment: “Your Majesty’s uncle, the 
Protector, was ever watchful, concerning your 
Majesty’s welfare,” he said, cautiously. 

Edward looked up annoyed. “My Uncle was 
more concerned for himself and for his own 
gain,” he replied, “as the record will show.” 

Master Cheke subsided into another fit of 
silence, and the King proceeded: “The Lords 
sat in open places of London, calling for Gentle- 
men before them and declaring the cause of 
accusation of the Lord Protector, and caused 
the same to be proclaimed. After which time 
few came to Windsor, but only mine own men 
of the Guard, whom the Lords willed, fearing 
the rage of the People so lately quieted.” 

The King paused again; and the tutor, think- 
ing he must say something, commented dryly, 
“It was a turbulent period.” Which remark 
being of no account, one way or the other, the 
King suffered to pass unnoticed, and continued 
his reading: 


202 


of Suffolk 

‘‘Then began the Protector to treat by Letters, 
sending Sir Philip Hobbey; lately come from 
his ambassage in Flanders, to see to his Family, 
who brought in his return a letter to the Pro- 
tector, very gentle, which he delivered to him; 
another to Me; another to my House, to declare 
his Faults, Ambition, Vain Glory.” 

Master Cheke started, nervously; he was 
sure that he heard the deep, commanding voice 
of the Protector: “Remember Master Cheke, 
that Edward is a Seymour, one of us — one of us.” 
And there was his face again! A face so stern 
and rigid, that it had never changed its expres- 
sion when he had signed a warrant for the 
execution of his own brother. 

“Entering into rash wars in my Youth,” 
Edward continued, “negligent looking on New 
Haven, enriching of himself of my treasure, 
following of his own opinion, and doing all by 
his own Authority. . . . Which letters were 

openly read, and immediately the Lords came 
to Windsor, took him and brought him through 
Holborn to the Tower. Afterward I came to 
Hampton Court, where they appointed ” 

Again Master Cheke held up a hand, timidly, 
203 


The Daughters 


and Edward stopped reading. “As in the other 
case, your Majesty, it would be only right to 
say, by your Majesty’s consent.” 

A pleasant expression again flitted across the 
young face, as he took up his quill pen and 
wrote: “by My consent.” After which he 
remarked to his tutor, “It pleases me well to 
have so careful and learned a teacher,” and he 
continued to read. 

Master Cheke pressed his hands together, 
rigidly, and bowed low to the King; a half 
stifled sigh escaped him, — the result of holding 
his breath, with fear. Somerset in the Tower, 
Somerset in the Tower! Incredible. 

“The Lord Protector,” said Edward, “by 
his own agreement and Submission, lost his 
Protectorship, Treasureship, Marshalship, all 
his Moveables, and more, 2000 pounds yearly, 
from the revenue of his lands.” 

“And also his head, your Majesty,” came 
low, but distinctly, in a voice that was not 
Master Cheke’s. And, as the King looked up 
from his Journal, he encountered the large, 
innocent-looking eyes of John Dudley, Duke 
of Northumberland. He had stepped into the 
204 


of Suffolk 


room from somewhere behind the hangings, and 
advanced to the table with the easy, careless 
movement of one who was about to exchange 
the compliments of the season. 

Edward closed his book, abruptly, and his 
delicate cheeks paled. “Has the sentence, in 
truth, been consummated ?” he asked. 

“In very truth, your Majesty,” answered 
Dudley, as he twirled the long, slender stem of 
a house-plant between his thumb and forefinger. 
“Your uncle, the Lord Protector of other days, 
is no more.” 

The boy leaned forward, over the table, his 
mouth half open, his lustrous eyes, Jane Sey- 
mour’s eyes, slowly filling with tears. The long 
accusation, that he had just read to his tutor, 
against Somerset, the Protector, faded away in 
the rush of kindly thoughts of his uncle, Edward 
Seymour. “Dead,” he muttered, as his head 
fell lower, lower, until it rested upon his out- 
stretched arms. . . . 

Master Cheke moved, noiselessly, backward, 
until he had reached the door; then, quietly 
pushing aside the hangings, he passed swiftly 
through the adjoining apartments, on through 
205 


The Daughters 


the numerous passages of the Palace, and out 
into the open air. For a mile or more he walked 
rapidly through certain lanes and unfrequented 
streets of London; until he finally stood in 
front of a small, but respectable looking house 
in the suburbs. Before he could knock on the 
double door the upper half opened quietly and 
a small, tear-stained face looked into his anx- 
iously. “ I myself saw you through the window. 
Ah! Mon Dieu, it has happened.’’ 

Master Cheke passed her in the hall; “Yes 
Marie,” he said, almost in a whisper, while he 
nervously loosened the tie at his neck, “The 
Duke of Somerset is dead I ” 

Katharine, leaning over the balustrade at 
the top of the stairway, called to Master Cheke. 

“ Is there any hope of a reprieve ? ” And 
Jacques, at the same moment appearing at the 
kitchen door, heard him answer — 

“My lady, he is dead.” ... 

Behold, the little party of runaways from 
Bradgate, who, after a tedious journey of nearly 
one hundred miles, arrived, finally, in London, 
and had found a temporary refuge in Master 
206 


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)/ Suffolk 


Cheke’s private residence, where they had been 
safely conducted and introduced by his friend 
and pupil, young Edward Seymour. Small 
wonder, under the circumstances, that Sir John 
Cheke — he had recently been knighted by King 
Edward — should feel occasional chills running 
down his spine as if cold steel had been applied 
to the back of his neck, as he removed his outer 
garments, and seated by the little wood fire in 
the hall he gazed into the troubled eyes of Kath- 
arine. As he held his thin white hands out- 
stretched before the tiny blaze, he tried to collect 
his thoughts, and to form some plan for his 
future guidance. 

But, try as he would, his mind did nothing 
but perform a continuous revolution, to which 
there was no beginning or end. Young Seymour 
and Katharine had taken him into their con- 
fidence, and that troubled him. He knew that 
Dudley, the innocent-looking Duke of North- 
umberland; Herbert, the warlike Earl of Pem- 
broke, and Katharine’s father, the suave and 
treacherous Duke of Suffolk, were banded 
together for some definitive purpose; he had 
also witnessed the struggle which the brave 
207 


The Daughters of Suffolk 

Protector had made against them, a struggle 
of a brave man in the open, against a multitude 
of snakes in the grass, and the result! He won- 
dered how they could have succeeded, for the 
people were not with them; he knew that, for 
he went among them and heard their conver- 
sation. Then, searching for the strength of the 
conspirators, his mind dwelt on his royal pupil, 
and went no farther. They had captured his 
boyish fancy, fed his foolish vanity, so that 
Edward turned a deaf ear to his uncle and 
joined his enemies. Now it was all plain to 
Master Cheke; he must, of necessity, sail his 
little boat in the wake of the larger craft. Then, 
having in a measure settled the matter that was 
troubling him, he was conscious that Katharine 
was still looking at him — no, not at him, but 
through him I As she sat, in her favorite position 
on a low stool, her chin in her hands, her elbows 
on her knees, her beautiful young face showed 
keen disappointment. 

‘‘You have joined the conspiracy,” she said 
confidently. 


XVII. 

MASTER CHEKE 


OW, in the midst of these 
troublous times, there 
must needs alight on his 
threshold, like a pair of 
cooing doves driven be- 
fore a stormy wind, these 
youthful lovers; claiming his aid and protection. 

This is what annoyed the learned man, as 
he walked slowly to the Palace, one fine morning 
of the next week, this is what terrified the benef- 
icent, charitable, and worthy old chancellor. 
Sir John Cheke. 

For he was not a man of action, and he pre- 
ferred rather to defend his pronunciation of the 
Greek vowels, against the assaults of Gardiner; 
or to defend his phonetic method of English 
spelling, than to champion the cause of Katha- 
rine, before the King. “This is not the time,” 
he said to himself, as he made his way, through 
the wretched streets of London “to speak to the 
209 



14 


The Daughters 


King of a matter that concerns young Seymour.’’ 
Then his face cleared, like an April day, as a 
sunny and cheerful thought entered his mind, 
‘‘I like her well, she may be the Queen some 
day!” he said, suddenly. 

This was the learned Cheke, of whom Harvey 
said, some years later: ‘‘His style was the 
honeybee of Plato.” As he walked, further and 
further, his head bent, his hands behind his 
back, he began to compose a love sonnet, in 
imitation of the Greek. A task that so occupied 
his mind, and fixed his attention, as to render 
him totally oblivious to his surroundings; so 
that, in the space of an hour or more he found 
himself in the shop of a small bookseller, instead 
of the King’s Palace. Nodding carelessly to 
the proprietor, who sat warming his thin legs 
before a fire of faggots, he began to turn over 
the volumes that stood on a high bench near 
the door. 

“Ha,” he exclaimed, as he picked up a slender 
book, “another play, by Bilious Bale.” The 
bookseller stopped rubbing his shins, and looked 
up to the tall man whose face was not unfamiliar. 
“Aye, and its a great beating he gives the 
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of Suffolk 


Papists/’ he said, insinuatingly; for it was well 
to know one’s customer, be he Reformed, or 
Catholic. 

“ I like him not,” said Cheke, as he returned 
the volume to its place. The old man came 
forward to show his wares. “A lightsome thing, 
by Richard Edwards,” he said, holding in his 
hand a small pamphlet. 

Master Cheke looked at it for a moment and 
thrust it into an inner pocket of his cloak. Then 
he began to examine the more serious looking 
folios. But the bookseller was a shrewd mer- 
chant, and he baited his hook with the same 
coloured fly. 

“A book of Poems,” he said, contemplatively, 
‘‘by Nicholas Grimoald ?” 

Cheke left the folios, and returned to the tall 
bench. “It may be worth while,” he com- 
mented. “I will take it with me.” 

And so the good man went on, buying the 
new books and browsing amongst the old; until 
his wits returned, suddenly, and he remembered 
that he had set off for an appointment with the 
King. A serious task lay before him; for King 
Edward was possessed with an ambition to be 

2II 


The Daughters 


great, as an author. In furtherance of this 
desire he had sent for John Cheke, unquestion- 
ably one of the most learned men of his age, his 
old tutor, and had conferred on him the order 
of knighthood. It was necessary for Sir John 
to make all haste to the King’s presence. When 
he arrived at the Palace, an attendant was await- 
ing him, with orders to bring him at once to the 
King’s private study. “His Majesty has sent 
me, three times,” said the high-born page, with 
a show of impatience, that was not lost on the 
sensitive scholar, “and he is not in the best of 
humor,” he added. 

Master Cheke forgot his Greek sonnet and 
other distracting thoughts, as he bowed low to 
Edward, the King. In truth he had a deep 
affection for the boy, to which he gave expres- 
sion, some years afterwards, in his “Royall 
Elegie on King Edward the VI,” which, in a 
measure, was returned by his pupil; but, Edward 
had been waiting, in the cold uncomfortable 
room, for more than an hour. “I thought that 
you must be seriously ill,” he greeted his absent- 
minded teacher, “or else, that some mishap had 
befallen you, to keep Me waiting.” Edward 
212 


of Suffolk 


always wrote “ me,” with a capital M. He ac- 
cented the word in his speech, and paused to 
give the unlucky Master of Arts and Science an 
opportunity to clear himself of so grave an 
offense, but Master Cheke remained silent. 

In fact there was nothing that he could say, 
nothing that would answer his purpose. 

“ I did miscalculate the time, your Majesty,” 
he finally stammered; and Edward, who really 
held the worthy man in great respect, seeing 
his embarrassed state, pressed the matter no 
further. He opened the Journal, that lay on 
the table in front of him, and began to read: 

“My Lord Somerset was delivered of his 
bonds, and came to court.” He stopped, sud- 
denly, and gazed into his tutor’s benign counte- 
nance. “Master Cheke,” he said, seriously. 
“In the matter of my uncle, the Protector, I 
think that we were somewhat a little severe in 
our remarks, during our last reading.” 

“Your Majesty,” replied Cheke, nervously, 
for the chills were again about his neck, as he 
imagined that he heard a slight rustling behind 
the heavy hangings, “your nature is to find no 
fault with those who do their duty.” 

213 


7 he Daughters 


The King was pleased with this answer; and 
the one behind the curtain, whoever he might 
be, was welcome to construe it as it might affect 
him. 

And so the reading continued, of trifling and 
important events, as recorded in the Journal of 
Edward the Sixth. 

One day he had noted the “ baiting of bears 
and bulls,” and on another he issued a procla- 
mation, “that all Wooll-winders should take 
an oath that they would make good cloth.” On 
another occasion he noted the fact that “Joan 
of Kent was burnt for holding, that Christ was 
not Incarnate of the Virgin Mary.” And shortly 
afterwards, he had written that: “The Ambas- 
sadors had a fair supper made them by the Duke 
of Somerset; and afterwards went to the Thames 
and saw both the Bear hunted in the water, and 
also Wild-fire cast out of boats, and many pretty 
conceits.” 

To all of which, and much more beside. 
Master Cheke gave solemn and earnest atten- 
tion; he added to the record here, and sub- 
tracted there, whenever the King would permit, 
so that the same would be rightly expressed. 

214 


of Suffolk 


When he had finished reading all that he had 
written, the King dipped his pen into the ink, 
and wrote at the top of a new leaf: 

“The Duke of Somerset had his head cut off 
upon Tower Hill, between eight and nine a 
clock in the morning.” Then he turned to Sir 
John. “That is all that I have written in my 
Journal,” he said, “but here is another subject 
upon which I would have your criticism.” He 
took from a leather cover several manuscript 
pages; “I will read it to you. Master Cheke,” 
said the boy with much suppressed enthusiasm. 

He began: 

“ In eucharist then, there is bread, 

Whereto I do consent: 

Then with bread are our bodies fed; 

And further what is meant — ?”.... 

The poem continued in the same style for 
sixteen stanzas, and ended as follows: 

“This doe I say, this have I said. 

This saying say will I, 

This saying, though I once denaid, 

I will no more to die.” 

215 


The Daughters 


He stopped. ‘‘What think you, Master 
Cheke ? ” The old Provost of King’s College, 
the most refined critic of the English language, 
made answer: 

“With your Majesty’s consent, I will submit it 
to my friend John Foxe, in whose judgment, on 
matters religious, I have the greatest confidence.” 

In “ that worthie Booke of Martyrs, made by 
that famous Father and excellent Instrument 
in God his Church, Maister John Fox, so little 
to be accepted, and all other good books little 
or nothing to be reverenced; whilst other toyes, 
fantasies, and bableries, whereof the world is 
ful, are suffered to be printed,” in that excellent 
work there is a note regarding King Edward’s 
Poem as follows: “This piece is worthy of 
perpetual memory to the immortal fame and 
glory of this young Prince.” 

He took the manuscript and was about to 
withdraw, when he suddenly remembered the 
petition entrusted to his care. 

“Your Majesty,” he said, “there arrived at 
my humble dwelling, a young maiden in great 
distress of mind. She claims that a great wrong 
has been done her.” 


216 


of Suffolk 


Edward’s uminous eyes grew large and round, 
as was always the case whenever he heard of 
any manner of sorrow, as he arose from the table 
and motioned to the door leading into the audi- 
ence chamber. 

“ I will hear your petition. Sir John, with the 
others who have been waiting, in the room 
adjoining.” It was a common occurrence to 
present such requests; and Edward, having a 
gentle nature, seldom refused to hear the suppli- 
cations of his people. 

But Katharine’s prayer was not of the ordi- 
nary, and so Sir John advised the King. 

“Pardon, your Majesty,” he said, anxiously, 
“but the matter concerns a lady of high degree 
and she craves your private consideration.” 

The young King faced about, his anger rising. 
“What! No scandal, I trust. Master Cheke.” 

Sir John bowed low, his features curiously 
immovable. “The lady is of royal blood, your 
Majesty, and ” 

Edward interrupted him. “Then hold your 
silence, my Master, our cousin will do better, 
if her cause is just, to present her request 
in person. But I would know her name,” 
217 


The Daughters 


he added. “My sisters know how to make 
their addresses. Who then is this distressed 
relation ? ” 

“The lady Katharine Grey, your Majesty,” 
said Sir John, to whom the commission entrusted 
to his care, was most unpleasant. 

Then as he was about to retire from the royal 
presence, he backed awkwardly into the arms 
of John Dudley, the harmless, innocent, Duke 
of Northumberland. 

“A charming lady,” said the Duke, pleas- 
antly, as he at once joined in the conversation, 
“and but recently married to the son of our 
good friend, the Earl of Pembroke.” He paused 
a moment to search the countenance of Sir John 
Cheke, with one of his compelling, threatening 
glances, and then drew a letter from the pocket 
of his cloak. 

“ I have here, your Majesty, a letter from her 
father, Suffolk: and was about to bring the 
same to your Majesty’s attention, when I over- 
heard the lady mentioned by our learned Master 
Cheke.” 

King Edward took the letter from the Duke’s 
hand, and began to read. As he continued, his 
218 


of Suffolk 


brow contracted and he pursed his small mouth, 
until his face took on an expression of authority. 
When he had finished reading, he turned to Sir 
John, who in truth, wished a dozen times that 
the devil had taken young Seymour and his love 
affairs, before he had come to him. ‘‘We will 
hear what you have to relate. Sir John, about 
our cousin the lady Katharine,” he said as he 
resumed his seat at the table. 

The Duke again fixed his gaze on the scholar, 
but John Cheke had a poet’s courage, when in 
defense of a sorrowing damsel; and he minded 
him not. Then, he told the King of the trick 
that had been played upon the young girl, 
whereby she had been trapped into marriage 
with one whom she did not love. And, telling 
the tale as Katharine had told it to him; but 
embellished with all the rhetoric of which he 
was a master, the King suddenly gave judgment, 
boy-like, and without so much as hearing a 
w’ord from the Duke. “The marriage shall not 
stand,” he said, impetuously; and one could 
have heard in his speech an echo of his royal 
father’s voice, the imperious King Henry the 
Eighth. “I command you, my Lord Northum- 
219 


The Daughters 


berland, to have a declaration made that the 
marriage has been null and void from the begin- 
ning; and you will invoke the law, through our 
council, in proper legal form, to free our cousin 
Katharine from the burden of this farce.” 

With a malignant look, first at the successful 
scholar, which made the latter to creep in his 
flesh, Northumberland made his obeisance. 
“As the King commands,” he said, with much 
show of obedience, “so shall it be.” 

Master Cheke also bowed low to Edward. 
“Your Majesty is ever just to high and low 
alike. Your judgment of which I am to be the 
honored bearer, will give joy and a new life to 
my lady Katharine Grey.” . . . 

As the worthy man, full of happiness at the 
thought of what he had accomplished, wended 
his way homeward; his contented mind, reflect- 
ing in a healthful manner upon his body, made 
him sensible of a great thirst that was annoying 
his palate. And, his mind and body agreeing 
as to the direction. Master Cheke was soon 
inside of a snug little tavern, where men of 
letters were wont to congregate. After the keen 
edge of his appetite was somewhat blunted, he 


220 


of Suffolk 


called for pen and paper; a few small sheets of 
Spanish manufacture were handed him, and he 
wrote : 

“ Deep in my soul thine image dwells, 

Still, silently, a tear mine eyelid swells 
When, night or day, I stop to rest, 

And think a moment-which is best; 

Life’s ceaseless toil, and tinsel prize. 

Or just to dream about thine eyes ? 

O Love! how strong; how great thy power, 

O Life! how weak; to grant an hour, 

A moment of the rapture true, 

A second of those days-with You.” 

These were the lines that had been entangling 
his thoughts during the morning. Thrice he 
read over the verses, and after each reading he 
would sit absorbed in deep meditation. The 
rhyme was an imitation of Marcus Argentarius, 
but the theme was old; old, even before the 
Greek was born. 


XVIIL 

PLOTTING 


ENRY THE Eighth died 
on January the twenty- 
eighth, in the year 1547 — 
unloved, unmourned, and 
detested equally by both 
Catholics and Protes- 
tants. Before his death he provided in his 
will, that his son Edward — by Jane Seymour 
— should succeed him; and next, Mary, daugh- 
ter of Catharine, of Aragon; and, failing 
Mary and her issue, his daughter — by Anne 
Boleyn — Elizabeth: Provided, that both Mary 
and Elizabeth, should marry only with the 
consent of the counsellors, appointed to Ed- 
ward in his minority. Failing Elizabeth and 
her issue. Lady Frances, daughter of Charles 
and Mary Brandon, the mother of Jane and 
Katharine Grey, was to be the heir to the 
crown. This latter possibility, remote as it 
might appear to the ordinary Englishman of 
222 




The Daughters of Suffolk 

that age, was regarded by the Duke of North- 
umberland, as a possible occurrence; which, 
by his power and influence over the young king, 
aided by circumstances, might be made a fact. 
So he had taken into his confidence a few of the 
council, upon whom he thought he could 
depend. In furtherance of his plans he soon 
found it convenient to make a visit to his friend 
Henry Grey. 

When he arrived at Bradgate he found his 
fellow conspirator in a state of mind bordering 
on panic. He was peevish and irritable, and 
had no sooner conducted his visitor to a corner, 
remote from the rest of the household, when he 
drew from amongst a large bundle of papers, 
a letter, which he handed to Dudley. “There,’’ 
he said, angrily, “is a token from William 
Herbert, for the writing of which I should run 
him through the body with my sword.” 

Northumberland took the letter from Suf- 
folk’s hand, smiling softly, gently. “You war- 
like lords forever speak of deathly hits by 
sword, or pistol; but, to my mind the headsman 
doth a neater stroke than either dag or rapier — 
I would be great in the Council.” He lowered 
223 


The Daughters 


his head, and raised his eyes until the white 
showed beneath the pupils, as he gazed fixedly 
at SuiFoIk. 

The latter squirmed uneasily on his chair, and 
pulled at the ends of his long drooping mustache. 
This cat-like Dudley, this soft, purring, smiling 
Dudley, with his large childlike eyes, and cold, 
clammy hands — his friend ? He sat still as 
Northumberland read the letter aloud: 

“With Somerset’s head in the basket, God 
knows whose turn will come next. I care not 
to take the chance, my lord, and doubt not 
that the matter can be so arranged as to sever 
the light bonds existing between the Lady 
Katharine and my son Henry.” 

Dudley suffered the letter to fall to the floor, 
and made no effort to recover it. “Pembroke 
is too easily alarmed,” he said, in his low 
measured voice, “he worries over a cause that 
has already been settled. The king has advised 
the Council of his wish to have the marriage of 
the Lady Katharine declared null and void 
from the beginning.” 

“The King?” questioned Suffolk — “Then 
you showed him not the letter in which I 
224 



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of Suffolk 


explained to you how the rites had all been 
legally performed and with my consent.” 

Dudley’s face flushed, a trifle, as he recalled 
the interference of Sir John Cheke. “My 
Lady Katharine had already gained her peti- 
tion,” he said indifferently, “and as it turns 
out for the best — Ah ! here comes the Lady 
Jane,” he said, as he caught sight of her cross- 
ing the great hall. 

“And your son, Guilford,” added Suffolk, 
as his glance went past his lovely daughter, to 
the young man following her — “ they are seldom 
seen apart.” 

A genuine smile of approbation and pleasure 
swept across the crafty features of Northumber- 
land. “So it should be,” he commended. 
“For, through the union of this well matched 
pair, there will come much greatness to you — 
and me.” He arose and made a sweeping bow 
as Jane Grey approached. 

“My lord, the Duke,” she greeted him, and 
holding out her hand as though she were indeed 
a queen. 

“My lady,” he replied, as he touched the 
tips of her fingers to his lips. 

225 


15 


The Daughters 


‘‘I am consumed with anxiety,” she said, 
‘‘about my sister Katharine; it is now a month 
since she left us, and I could wait for news of 
her no longer — even at the risk of interrupting 
you, and of offending my father,” she gave a 
hurried look in Suffolk’s direction; she ex- 
pected to find his brow fretted, and his 
irritation manifested by some sarcastic phrase 
— but, to her surprise, her father smiled upon 
her, blandly. 

“ Thy parents’ ears were ever open to so good 
and virtuous a daughter,” he said, pompously. 
“Regarding thy sister Katharine’s affairs; she 
has taken her matters into her own hands, and 
through a petition to the King has undone all 
our plans.” 

“Not all our plans, my lord,” corrected 
Dudley, politely, “ the disaffection of Lord 
Pembroke is but a minor occurrence, a dis- 
appointment that can be easily remedied 
when we have need of him.” He smiled, and 
lowered his eyes, as he affected a humility, a 
gentleness in his manner and speech that ill 
suited his reputation; for since the execution 
of Somerset, his former friend and confidant, 
226 


of Suffolk 


and for whose death he was responsible, John 
Dudley was now master of England. 

“In what manner did the King receive my 
sister’s petition?” asked Jane, hastily, for she 
was apprehensive lest her father’s unusual mani- 
festation of affection for her should suffer a 
relapse, before she had news of Katharine. 

“The King promptly approved of thy sister’s 
disobedience,” answered Suffolk, in a tone of 
irony that was not lost upon the others — “Our 
cousin, the King, never loses an opportunity of 
doing us a favor.” 

The irascible Duke arose to his feet and began 
to pace the hall, back and forth, apparently 
oblivious to his surroundings. Jane and Guil- 
ford Dudley sauntered off together, while the 
gentle Northumberland kept his seat, and 
watched his colleague, from under his drooping 
eyelids. As Suffolk drew near him in his aimless 
march up and down the hall Northumberland 
accosted him, quietly, “Your good cousin, the 
King, will not have many more opportunities 
to grant favors to you or to anyone else.” 

Suffolk stopped abruptly, and looked with 
curiosity at the upturned countenance of the 
227 


The Daughters 


other. “What mean you, my lord ? It were 
better to talk to the point, and as men, now 
that the children have left us.” 

A faint smile hovered over the inscrutable 
face of Dudley as he answered — “The young 
King’s health is rapidly failing,” he said, slowly, 
deliberately, “his fast waning strength shows 
unmistakable signs of coming death.” 

“Death!” repeated Suffolk, unable to conceal 
his excitement and suspicions. “If you have 
been the cause of ” 

“Stop!” exclaimed Northumberland, as his 
hand went swiftly to his sword hilt, his pale 
face was aflame, his self control was gone — 
“another word by which you would brand me 
a child murderer, and we fight to the death.” 
He stood up to his full stature, his strong body 
quivering, his breath choking him as he spoke. 

Suffolk retreated a few paces, before the 
other’s anger. “I made no charge,” he said in 
apology, “but merely put the question.” 

“To the bottom of Hell with you and your 
questions ! ” answered Dudley, hotly. His anger 
was furious, his rage unbridled. “Think you, 
Henry Grey, that I have forgotten the banquet 
228 


)f Suffolk 


that you and Somerset arranged for me — a feast 
at which my dead body was to be the unwelcome 
guest?’’ He stepped back, and raising his arm 
pointed a finger at the frightened Suffolk — 
“And you — ^you! dare accuse me of murder.” 
He stood for a moment, rapidly recovering his 
temper, and when he spoke again it was in the 
same gentle cadence with which his friends were 
familiar. “When the King dies” he said, 
calmly, “then ” 

“The princess Mary will come to the throne,” 
said Suffolk, like a guilty school-boy, overjoyed 
that his master’s rage had passed away. 

“Not if we are successful in our enterprise,” 
rejoined the other, serenely. 

“And if not?” asked Suffolk, quickly. 

“If not, — if not,” — repeated Dudley, dream- 
ily, as if the subject no longer possessed any 
interest to him. 

“If the princess Mary should ascend the 
throne ? ” prompted the Duke of Suffolk, 
anxiously. 

“Oh, in that event you and I will lose our 
Protestant heads,” he said sharply, incisively, 
like the quick, cutting stroke of an axe. 

229 


The Daughters 


Suffolk paled to an ashy whiteness, as though 
he had already suffered the trial, and sentence 
of a new Council; his throat became dry and 
contracted, as he made efforts to speak. “ Could 
such a contingency happen.^” he said in a 
strained voice. ‘‘Excepting a few of the old 
school adherents, the princess would have no 
support, we have our retainers, and the foreign 
soldiers.’’ 

Dudley waved his hands in a comprehensive 
circle before him. “The princess Mary is the 
Nation’s hope,” he said tersely, “we shall have 
to fool, or fight the people of all England.” 
Then his head sank low, until his short beard 
touched his breast, and he remained silent for 
some moments. As he continued plunged in 
deep thought, Suffolk began to think for him- 
self. “If the chance is so great,” he suggested, 
hopefully, and his face cleared as though an 
oppressive burden had been lifted from his 
shoulders, “it were better for us to stop now 
and to seek our ends no further.” 

Northumberland’s scornful eyes rested for a 
moment on the tall handsome figure of the 
aristocratic Suffolk, and his lips curled, dis- 
230 


of Suffolk 


dainfully, “ It is too late, my lord, to turn back 
or to seek safety in the ranks of our enemies. 
Dost think that the Queen Mary would so 
soon forget the outrageous treatment that she 
received at our hands as the Catholic Princess 

“Softly,” cautioned Suffolk, as he held a 
warning finger to his lips while his eyes searched 
carefully the farther corners of the hall. “There 
are those of my household who might be tempted 
to inform.” 

“Ha — ha!” laughed the master of England, 
and his mirth sounded gruesome to Henry 
Grey, “your imagination leads forward at too 
rapid a pace. Mary is not yet the Queen, my 
lord of Suffolk, — nor yet likely to be,” he added 
insolently. “We want no Harlot of Babylon to 
rule over us, I was but testing thy courage.” 


XIX. 

FAREWELL— BRADGATE 


HE winter had ended, 
summer was at hand; 
the time was drawing 
near when Jane Grey 
was to consummate her 
marriage with Guilford 
Dudley, to leave her 
father’s house, and all that was dear to her 
heart at Bradgate. 

She had been gently, but firmly, drawn into 
the engagement by the persistence of her parents 
and that of her lover; and now in this lovely 
month of May there was to be, for her, a part- 
ing from home that struck her with a weight 
of misery. Not that she cared particularly for 
the separation from her father and mother; 
they had been to the conscientious girl but 
vigorous teachers, far more severe in their 
admonitions than her tutor, the learned Aylmer. 
They were to her dutiful mind the stern guar- 
232 




The Daughters of Suffolk 

dians, to be respected and obeyed, but not to be 
loved. In her receptive nature the trees and 
flowers, the dumb animals, the shady glens, 
the sunny pasture lands of Bradgate, were 
engraved deeper, more firmly, than the parental 
ties. As she walked alone in a secluded by- 
path of the park adjoining the great mansion, 
her heart was sorely tried. She felt as though 
each particular tree and grassy walk was famil- 
iar, and conscious of her presence, and that 
they would be lonely during her absence. She 
loved them with all her young heart, and she 
imagined that they returned her affection. The 
day was warm, it was nearly the last of May, 
but a gentle breeze stirred the air, heavy and 
sweet with the smell of blossoms. As she 
walked along, the tall trees, sighing with a 
fluttering rustle in their highest branches, 
seemed to look down upon her with a sad and 
personal interest; and the flowers springing up 
in her pathway, brushed her garments with a 
touch, that seemed to her, of friendly affection. 

But now she was to leave all this, all that was 
near and dear to her from infancy. Each sum- 
mer the garden would bloom, while the thrushes 

233 


The Daughters 


and blackbirds were singing in the leafy branches 
of the overhanging trees. 

Over in the pasture the sheep would browse, 
and the hot sun would warm the earth into 
fragrant odors, into delicious scents, and per- 
fumes; while it made dark tracings on the 
velvety green of the turf. 

And the old Manor, the fine old rectangular 
structure of red bricks and stone, with its four 
towers, one at each angle, and many mysterious 
corners, where she and her sister Katharine 
had penetrated and “discovered’’ with many 
exciting thrills and childish screams, the ghosts 
and little neighbors. And the garden, with its 
high surrounding walls of stone; and a sun dial 
around whose base a lordly peacock was wont 
to strut in its vain pride and glory; the old 
Manor, with its walls all covered with ivy, her 
home; the house in which she was born. 

She had watched the summers blossom forth 
each year, blossom and bloom until the ap- 
proach of winter; when trees and flowers alike 
shed their foliage on road and pathway. She 
trod lightly, this warm afternoon, on a walk 
that led through the leafy arches of the trees, 

234 


of Suffolk 


with unutterable sadness in her heart; for she 
was taking leave of Bradgate. Scarcely con- 
scious of her direction, so absorbed was she in 
thought, her steps led her to a small summer 
house, and arbor; that stood at the edge of a 
group of trees, on the top of a knoll or hill. In 
front of the house, which was nearly covered 
with flowering vines, stood a few rustic seats that 
commanded a view of the beautiful rolling coun- 
try surrounding the Mansion. Jane stood for 
a few moments, lost in admiration of the lovely 
scene that lay before her. At her feet was an 
undulating country, covered with a soft growth 
of deep green. Browsing through the verdure 
were many cattle and sheep; contentedly eating 
their fill, in uninterrupted peace. 

Above her head the sky was of the deepest 
blue; and, off in the distance, in front of her, 
a few fleecy clouds moved slowly across the 
reddening horizon. 

The sensitive girl, in harmony with her sur- 
roundings, nestled in a corner of one of the 
benches, while her eyes wandered dreamily 
over the familiar view. 

Suddenly, without any previous intimation 

235 


The Daughters 

or warning, she felt a soft pair of hands fold 
over her eyes, and a fluttering voice was asking: 

‘‘Who is it, Jane, Who is it?’’ 

Jane’s hands caught the shapely wrists that 
rested on her shoulders, and she held them in 
a tight embrace. 

“Who is it?” she laughed impulsively, 
“Who could it be, other than my dear little 
mad-cap sister, Kitty ? ” She drew her down 
on the seat beside her, “Come here” she said 
lovingly, as one hand released Katharine’s 
wrist, the better to encircle her waist. “Here, 
now tell me everything, everything my Kitty, 
from the time you left us.” 

Katharine, loving, stormy, forgiving Katha- 
rine, clung to her sister with both arms. 

“Oh, Jane,” she sighed, her large blue eyes 
brimming with happiness. ‘H am so glad, so 
glad.” She took a deep breath of content- 
ment — “So glad, that you did not scold me.” 
Jane’s sense of duty suddenly revived. 

“You deserve it, of course,” said the elder 
sister, conscientiously, “but I have no heart at 
present, for such unpleasant duty. How left you 
Master Cheke ?” 


236 


of Suffolk 


Katharine’s face changed from mirthfulness 
to soberness. “The good man was much per- 
turbed in spirit at the taking off of the Duke 
of Somerset, it was dreadful.” She gazed out 
over the peaceful valley that lay in front of her. 
“Oh, Jane the brutality of man is terrible; 
in London there is no safety for anyone who 
dares to have an opinion. Sir John is at his 
wits’ end, for the many things that he has written, 
and his ideas publicly expressed.” 

“They would do him no harm,” said Jane, 
quietly, “ He has the king’s love and respect, he 
will see that no process overtakes so worthy a 
man.” 

“ But the king is ill, very ill,” said Katharine, 
anxiously. “He pays little or no attention to 
matters of state, but keeps close to his chamber. 
Oh Jane, what if the king should die ?” Kath- 
arine withdrew from her sister’s arms, and 
throwing back her head she gazed, apprehen- 
sively, into her calm face. It was no secret 
between the sisters; the love that the king had 
for Jane, it was no secret in all of the court 
circle; it was a pity that so suitable a match 
could not be made, but Dudley, the master 

237 


The Daughters 


of England, had his own selfish views, his own 
ends to attain; while hearts were breaking, 
and men and women were dying at his ruthless 
command. 

“What if the King should die.^’’ repeated 
Katharine, uneasily. But Jane was lost in deep 
thought, while her eyes opened round and wide 
as they sought the farthest limit of the horizon. 
Presently she spoke, but in an absent manner, 
as though to herself, “ In that case, the Princess 
Mary would be Queen of England.’’ 

Katharine shuddered, nervously, “And what 
would become of us?” she asked, with much 
concern. Jane’s mind came back to the loving 
child at her side, and again she encircled her 
with a protecting arm. “We should be much 
the same, Kitty; pursuing our studies, for 
Guilford promises that when we are married 
we shall live not far from Bradgate.” Katha- 
rine started, with an angry movement — 
“Pshaw! Guilford promises, indeed; I hate 
Guilford, I hate his father,” she was breathless 
and trembling with quick emotion, as she 
awaited Jane’s anger. But it came not. As 
she scanned her face it seemed to Katharine as 
238 


of Suffolk 


if her sister was far from her, as if her spirit was 
absent, and that she was talking to her unre- 
sponsive body. She caught her arm and shook 
it, impatiently. “Jane, please do stop looking 
like an angel; listen.” Jane’s eyes rested ten- 
derly on her sister. “Sir John Cheke says, if 
Mary is to be the Queen, that we shall all lose 
our heads!” 

Jane’s face relaxed into a smile, “Sir John 
must have already lost his, to make such a 
saying.” 

“Our father will be the first.” 

“Nonsense,” answered Jane. 

“And your dear Dudley the next.” 

“Absurd.” 

“Ascham and Aylmer,” continued Katharine, 
tremulously, “and — and then all of our friends 
who are Protestants!” 

“Silly,” insisted Jane; then looking more care- 
fully at Katharine, she noticed a fine ring of 
curious workmanship — its jewels blazing and 
sparkling in the afternoon sun — a ring that she 
had seen before. 

“Has thy love for Seymour changed?” she 
asked, abruptly, changing the subject. 

239 


The Daughters 


Katharine made an awkward attempt to hide 
her jewelled hand beneath the other, and failed. 
‘‘It is a pledge between us,’’ she said, timidly, 
as she held up her hand. She looked for some 
word from her sister; but again Jane’s eyes 
were fixed on the horizon, her mind striving to 
pierce the future. 

Katharine slowly drew the ring from her 
finger and held it in the palm of her hand for 
her sister’s inspection. “See,” she said in a con- 
fidential voice, “it hath a secret.” 

Jane’s curiosity was somewhat aroused. 

“And how is that?” she questioned. 

Katharine showed her how the ring consisted 
of five links, cunningly contrived, one within 
the other: the four inner ones contained the 
following poetry, composed by her lover: 

“ As circles five by art compact 
-shows but one Ring in sight, 

So trust uniteth faithfull mindes 
-with knott of secret might; 

Whose force to break but greedy Death 
-noe wight possesseth power, 

As time and sequels well shall prove, 

-My Ringe can say no more.” 

240 


of Suffolk 


When Katharine had read the verses, slowly 
turning the circles round in her hand, she looked 
for some word from Jane, but her sister was 
again wrapped in deep meditation. 

She seemed as though she had not heard the 
endearing couplets. This afternoon, the last 
that she was destined to spend at Bradgate, the 
sensitive girl appeared to be in communion 
with the other world. Her keen bright intellect, 
educated to the highest perceptive plane, no 
doubt enabled her to see beyond her environ- 
ments; and to contemplate, with absorbing 
interest, the future. 

Katharine grew offended. 

“I suppose that my doings have no further 
concern for you,” she said, impatiently. 

Jane came back to earth. 

“Everything that concerns you, my Kitty, is 
of moment to me. I was but thinking, selfishly 
of my future.” 

“With Guilford?” asked Katharine, mock- 
ingly. 

“With Guilford,” repeated Jane, tenderly. 

Katharine remained silent, she was thinking. 
During her long stay in London she had heard 

i6 241 


The Daughters of Suffolk 


many things, of which her sister was ignorant; 
she had been in the current of metropolitan 
life, mixing with the people — the people, who 
after all were the real masters of England. 

She had listened to the people when they 
spoke of the Dudleys. She had shuddered 
with fright when, in the full glare of the open 
streets, the people had cursed the Duke of 
Northumberland and all of his family. She 
had heard their cries of rage, when the people 
first learned that the Duke of Somerset was 
to be executed. She had seen a soiled handker- 
chief, one of many hundreds, that a spectator 
had rushed forward and dipped in the Protec- 
tor’s blood, that he might keep him in memory. 
She had seen all these things in London; and 
they had influenced her mind, but they were as 
nothing to one act of the Dudleys, one that 
concerned her personally. They had compelled 
young Edward Seymour to flee for his life, to 
go to France. That was the chief reason why 
Katharine Grey hated the Dudleys. 


XX. 

THE CONSPIRACY 


N the meantime, King 
Edward the Sixth, in his 
bigotry and blind zeal for 
the “new religion,” fell 
into the carefully laid 
plans of the Duke of 
Northumberland, and his son-in-law. Lord 
Hastings, to whom he had given his daughter 
in marriage. 

The King had been taught to have implicit 
faith in the royal autocracy; and, as supreme 
ruler of England and head of the Church, he 
was ready to set aside both his father’s will, and 
parliamentary statute, by ignoring his sister 
Mary’s rights of succession, and substituting 
therefor those of his sister Elizabeth. 

The former was a Catholic, and in spite of the 
Council’s admonitions she continued steadfast 
in her faith; in this resolution she was supported 
by her powerful cousin, the Emperor Charles 

243 



The Daughters 


the Fifth, of Germany. In King Edward’s 
Journal, he wrote: “The Lady Mary sent 
letters to the Council, marvelling at the Im- 
prisonment of Dr. Mallet, her Chaplain, for 
saying of Mass before her Household, seeing it 
was promised the Emperor’s Ambassador she 
should not be molested in religion, but that she 
and her Household should have the Mass said 
before them continually. 

They answered : “That because of their duties 
to king, country and friends they were compelled 
to give answer. That they would see, not only 
him, but also all other mass-sayers and break- 
ers of order, strictly punished. And that as 
for promise, they had, nor would give none to 
make her free from the punishment of the law 
in that behalf.” 

So far was the Princess Mary at variance 
with both king and council. 

But the accession of the Princess Elizabeth 
was as little pleasing, if not so dangerous, to 
Dudley’s ambition, as was the chance of having 
Mary for his Queen. To set aside both of the 
king’s sisters, and also to pass over Frances 
Brandon, the wife of Henry Grey, and to place 
244 



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of Suffolk 


her daughter Jane the next in succession, con- 
stituted the “conspiracy,” to which Henry Grey, 
William Herbert, and a few other noblemen of 
lesser degree, under the commanding genius of 
John Dudley, had committed themselves. 

It was a daring project, and one full of possi- 
bilities the least of which occurring would cause 

O 

an untimely collapse and failure. 

The very element on which the conspirators 
counted as their tower of strength was their 
weakest point; Protestantism. 

England at the close of Henry the Eighth’s 
reign was essentially a Catholic nation, in its 
form of religion. Henry, himself, before his 
death, longed to become reconciled to the uni- 
versal church of which he had once been proudly 
styled by the Pope “The Defender.” At such 
seasons he would execute those who denied 
certain Catholic dogmas, then, when the humor 
had passed, he put to death those who main- 
tained the old religion. For over thirty years 
this monster had ruled over fair England. The 
wonder is that the people did not rise and kill 
him, as they would a ferocious and dangerous 
animal. But Henry was not unpopular with 

245 


The Daughters of Suffolk 


the common people, so long as his severity 
touched only the nobility. It was only when 
his Six Articles became law that they realized 
their danger. The “Whip with Six Lashes’’ 
might lash any of them. But in spite of it all 
they held to their old religion. They saw no 
change in its observance, they desired none. 
The “Book of Common Prayer,” formulated 
by his son King Edward, was indeed to the 
common people but the Catholic ritual, made 
plain and easy to their understanding. 

This attitude of the people was apparent to 
the Princess Mary, and her acute counsellor, 
Stephen Gardiner, once bishop of Winchester, 
now imprisoned in the tower, and they bided 
their time. . . . 


XXL 

JANE’S WEDDING 



RIGHT was the sky and 
I glorious the sunrise, that 
began the 24th day of 
May, in the year 1553, in 
I the old city of London. 


The gorgeous decora- 


tions of rich hangings and costly paintings, of 
marbles and rare embroideries, were placed to 
their best advantage in Durham House, the 
home of John Dudley. 

In the great hall and galleries, a few of the 
artists still lingered over their work, moving a 
chair here, and arranging the folds of a curtain 
there, so that the best effect would be obtained, 
in the magnificent display. The mansion was 
almost regal in its sumptuous furnishing, and 
John Dudley’s household was crowded with 
his retainers. At the expense of the nation, he 
had a band of a hundred yeomen, fully armed, 
and of which forty were attired in black velvet 


247 



The Daughters 


cloaks, with white and black sleeves on their 
doublets; the other sixty wore plain black .cloth 
capes, over white hose and doublets. To these 
were added, at his own expense, a hundred more 
of young gentlemen of distinguished ancestry; 
well mounted horsemen who also wore his livery. 

In the Duke’s household, also, were many 
domestic officials; a chamberlain, who carried 
a white wand of office, and at whose bidding the 
numerous ushers and waiters flitted hither and 
yon, around the lordly mansion. A chef pre- 
sided over the kitchen, and a small band of 
assistant cooks, carvers, and cup-bearers. Al- 
together, the Duke of Northumberland’s re- 
tainers, male and female servants, numbered 
nearly three hundred persons. 

As the morning advanced, the magnificent 
apartments took on an appearance of lively 
animation. The artist decorators, and their 
workmen, had all departed after giving the final 
touches to their work, and the rooms were now 
filling with those members of the Duke’s family 
who were to take part in the approaching cere- 
mony; the marriage of Guilford, his fourth son, 
to the Lady Jane Grey. 

248 


of Suffolk 


As they took their various positions in the 
splendid rooms and stairways, the scene became 
one of brilliant splendor and luxury. Many 
of the household were costumed in crimson 
velvet and white satin, embroidered with threads 
of gold; and as they formed in line in the great 
hall to receive the numerous guests, their bright 
appearance contrasted superbly with the rich 
dark tapestries on the walls behind them. The 
pages also were in bright colored liveries; and 
they hurried in and out of the various entrances, 
on orders from their superiors or of their own 
merry volition. An air of subdued excitement 
pervaded the air as high-noon drew near. 

Now the final preparations have all been 
made. A chorus of selected voices have been 
placed in an alcove, ready to chant the hymn of 
marriage, for the happy couple; while a band 
of musicians are also occupying an honorable 
position, to furnish music for the festivities that 
are to follow the ceremony. 

As the guests arrived they were received by 
the various ushers and shown to the places re- 
served for them; and it was woe to the gorgeously 
apparelled chamberlain, if by any ill chance an 
249 


The Daughters 


usher would seat one of lower rank above an- 
other. In this matter, the ladies were more 
concerned than their lords; for this was the 
most notable event of the season, and many 
would find in their placing the favor or indiffer- 
ence of their host, the greatest man in England. 

As he stood in the great hall receiving guests, 
the Duke of Northumberland might have been 
considered the most fortunate man in the King- 
dom. By his own will he had dissolved the 
Parliament. By the same inflexible determina- 
tion he had removed Somerset, the only formid- 
able obstacle to his plans, and now his son was 
to marry the woman whom he proposed to make 
the Queen of England. 

It was with scarcely concealed exultation that 
his face lighted with smiles, and his manner 
became condescending and affable towards his 
guests who were now rapidly arriving; so rapidly 
chat the chamberlain and his corps of ushers had 
all they could do to properly receive them. 

As they pressed forward to greet their host, 
the guests found him surrounded by his own 
family, his children, and their wives and hus- 
bands. There was Robert Dudley, his son of 
250 


of Suffolk 


infamous memory, who as the Earl of Leicester 
did so much to discredit the fame of the Queen 
Elizabeth; there was also Robert’s wife, Amy, 
daughter of Sir John Robsart, whom afterwards 
he was accused of having murdered. He was 
elegantly dressed in the most costly apparel, 
that set off his handsome person to the best 
advantage; but, when he opened his mouth to 
talk, his conversation exposed his lack of 
knowledge. 

And there was also present. Lord Lisle, 
another son who had married Lady Anne, 
daughter of Somerset, the Protector, whom 
the Duke of Northumberland had sent to his 
death. And Katharine, the Duke’s daughter 
who had married Lord Hastings, eldest son of 
the Earl of Huntingdon; they were both present. 

The guests also found when they were shown 
to their places, that most of the old nobility were 
conspicuously absent. The Duke might invite, 
threaten, or command, but these proud old 
families kept close to their mansions in town, 
or to their estates in the country. They would 
have nothing in common with a society of such 
recent growth. 


251 


The Daughters 


This obduracy in those who of all others he 
most desired to have at the wedding feast, may 
have tinctured the Duke’s happiness more 
deeply than his manner indicated. To every- 
one shown to his presence his greeting was 
most cordial and gracious; to none was he more 
so than to the Earl of Pembroke, who had de- 
serted his cause, but whose wife would not 
forego attendance at so notable a gathering. 

The absence of so many of the old nobility 
may have been a drop of gall in the Duke’s cup 
of happiness; but he speedily forgot it as a half 
suppressed flutter went around the rooms, when 
a herald announced the arrival of the King. 

Young Edward, dressed in a magnificent 
attire of gold and silver cloth, with its doublet 
of embroidered satin, and coat of purple velvet 
sparkling with costly jewels and decorations, 
advanced with a slow and feeble step to meet 
the Duke. His face was white, and his cheeks 
sunken, with the ravages of a disease that had 
nearly run its course. As he passed through the 
brilliant assembly, leaning heavily on the arm* 
of his old friend and tutor. Sir John Cheke, 
such a stillness prevailed among the guests that 
252 


of Suffolk 


one could hear the King’s troubled breathing 
as he struggled with his weakness. 

The Duke hastened to meet him with out- 
stretched hands. “Your Majesty,” he said, as 
he made his most courtly bow, “you do my 
humble abode an honor, such as I had hoped 
for, but hardly dared to expect.” 

The King returned his bow with a nod of 
tired indifference, “Sir John would have it so,” 
he said in so feeble a voice that few heard him. 
“Where are my cousins, Jane and Katharine ?” 
He straightened his slight form and looked 
about him, at the numerous guests who were 
now crowded in every nook and corner of the 
great hall, in quest of the young ladies to whom 
he was devotedly attached. 

“They await your Majesty,” said Dudley, 
as he led the King to a small room that was 
screened from the great hall by heavy curtains 
of cloth of gold. Pushing them aside, the Duke 
again made a low bow as the King and Sir John 
Cheke entered the room. 

“My dear cousins,” exclaimed the King, with 
more animation than he had as yet shown, as 
his faded eyes rested upon the lovely visions of 

253 


The Daughters 


Jane and Katharine Grey. ‘‘My dear cousins.’’ 
They came forward; Katharine’s sorrowful 
blue eyes large and round with grief at sight 
of the King’s altered appearance, and would 
have made a lowly obeisance had he not re- 
strained them. 

“No Jane, not here, my cousin, it is your 
wedding morning, and we come to render hom- 
age, not to receive it.” He led her back to her 
seat, and began a fit of coughing that left him 
weak and trembling. 

Again the curtains were drawn aside, and 
George Owen, the court physician, entered the 
room. “Your Majesty,” he said apologetically, 
“I was among the guests, and hearing your 
Majesty in some distress ” 

Edward waved his hand, irritably, “ Return 
to the guests,” he commanded, with just a 
shadow of his father’s presence, “ I shall send 
for you in need.” 

The skilful physician, first searching the 
King’s face, and anxiously noting his difficult 
breathing, slowly withdrew. As he passed be- 
tween the curtains the Duke’s light hand fell 
on his shoulder, “How long will he live.^” he 

254 


)f Suffolk 


whispered, while a smile that was meant for the 
guests, covered his face. 

A month, a week, perhaps an hour, God only 
knows,” said the doctor, with the freedom of 
speech of one whose familiarity with death 
makes him indifferent to earthly rank or title. 
“ He is here contrary to my advice.” So saying, 
the honest man took a seat near the curtains, 
determined to enter the room again whenever, 
in his judgment, it was necessary. 

With Jane were her parents, the Duke and 
Duchess of Suffolk, who, after making their 
obeisances, retired with Sir John to an adjoining 
room, one of many that followed en suite, around 
the great hall; leaving Jane and the King alone. 

“I arranged this interview, my cousin,” he 
began slowly, “so at the last moment, if neces- 
sary, you could still withhold your hand from 
young Dudley.” He gazed keenly into her calm 
young face, and seeing nothing there but a sud- 
den alarm at his question, he went on more 
rapidly. “Since the attempt on Katharine’s 
happiness I have watched the Duke,” he glanced 
at the curtains, and lowered his voice to a whis- 
per, “and I like not his methods.” 

255 


The Daughters 


“Oh, My Liege, there is some mistake,” 
began Jane dutifully. But the King held up a 
warning hand, “A King has many ears,” he 
said solemnly, and his young face looked old 
and careworn. “I know more than they sur- 
mise, but his plans agreeing with mine, except- 
ing this marriage, I have permitted Northum- 
berland to have his way.” 

He sank back, in a corner of the cushioned 
couch, exhausted with the effort of talking. His 
eyes were fixed on her, and he seemed to have 
lapsed into a half conscious condition; presently 
his eyes grew brighter, and a smile spread slowly 
over his wan features, “Jane, come closer.” 

She pushed a light chair of Chinese workman- 
ship, close to the head of the couch. 

“Your Majesty,” she answered. But her 
heart was full of alarm at the King’s faint symp- 
toms. “Your Majesty, must not tire your mind 
with my poor affairs.” 

Then, the King knew that his interference 
was not needed. “ It is of your own accord then, 
and you wish it so ? ” he said quickly, while a 
small spot reddened his pale cheek. 

She hung her head and remained silent for a 
256 


of Suffolk 

moment; then she raised her eyes and looked 
calmly into his. 

‘‘I have chosen Guilford, and, with your 
Majesty’s permission, the ceremony will be after 
mine own heart.” She quietly arranged a few 
pearls, that had fallen out of place, on her white 
damask gown, and waited for what he had to say. 

‘^So,” said the King coldly, “Then I have 
taken much pains for nothing, I wish you much — 

much ” His lips moved, but no sound 

issued, his face grew deathly pale, a shivering, 
convulsive tremor overcame him, and he would 
have fallen forward to the floor, but Jane caught 
him. 

“Oh God!” she cried out in terror. “The 
King,— help!” 

Instantly, before all others, the watchful 
physician was at his side. . . . 

One by one the guests took their departure, 
softly, quietly, tip-toeing down the magnificent 
corridors, and through the sumptuously fur- 
nished apartments; dispersing, abashed, horri- 
fied, in the presence of death. 

The Duke and his immediate family, alone, 
were left of all the gay throng that an hour 

257 


17 


The Daughters 


before had crowded the luxurious mansion. At 
intervals a gentleman of the household would 
step, silently, over the heavy floor coverings to 
announce : 

‘‘The King still lives.” 

“His Majesty is resting.” 

“There is no change.” 

And all the while the Duke sat with bowed 
head, wondering if the end had indeed come, 
not only to the King but to all of his carefully 
arranged plans. In his pocket, — he dared not 
trust it in any other place, — ^he carried a carefully 
prepared document, for Edward’s signature, in 
which the King, excluding his sisters Mary and 
Elizabeth, nominated the Lady Jane Grey as 
his successor to the throne. And now the King 
was lying at the point of death, and the document 
still unsigned. Inwardly he cursed the foolish 
delay that now threatened, not only to set aside 
his plans, but also to imperil his safety. Wea- 
rily, the long moments followed in painful sus- 
pense, as the poor young king, with the aid of 
his physician, faintly gasped for breath, and 
contested, little by little, the supremacy of 
death. Anxiously, the proud nobleman, Earl 
258 


of Suffolk 


of Warwick, Duke of Northumberland, Master 
of England, waited the smallest intelligence 
from the humble physician. . . . 

There was a stir, a slight commotion at one 
of the hall entrances, that caused the Duke to 
raise his head in vexation. Calling one of the 
pages he bade him go and ascertain the cause 
of the unseemly noise. The page returned with 
the chamberlain, who informed the Duke, that 
a messenger, of distinguished appearance, had 
forced his way past the lower servants, and was 
now at the hall, insisting that he must see the 
Duke in person. 

“Is he alone asked Northumberland, sus- 
piciously. 

“ He rides alone, my lord,” replied the cham- 
berlain, mysteriously, “and from the appear- 
ance of his horse, his business must be urgent.” 

The Duke looked cautiously about him, and, 
seeing that a score of his armed retainers were 
sauntering through the long corridors, within 
call, he ordered that the messenger be admitted 
to his presence. 

Scarcely had the officious chamberlain deliv- 
ered the order, when a youth of strikingly hand- 
259 


The Daughters 


some appearance burst into the hall; and, with 
a stride that was the more noticeable from the 
silence of the surroundings, he reached the 
Duke. 

“That,” he said, contemptuously, “from a 
lady, to a villain!” He took a small packet 
from the pocket in his cloak, and tossed it, 
insolently, into the Duke’s lap. Then, before 
any of the retainers could be summoned, he 
turned and hurriedly left the room. 

Glancing hastily around, to see if any of the 
others had witnessed the insult, the Duke slowly 
unwound the silken thread that tied the letter, 
and read: 

“My Lord Duke: My sister and I were, 
some days ago, apprised of the plots and cabals 
which your ambition for the advancement of 
your own house has led you to form in order to 
exclude us both from the succession to the crown. 
We were not, however, willing to give credit to 
these reports, because we could not conceive 
that a gentleman of your merit, of whom we hold 
so good an opinion, and who evinced, when you 
took the reins of government of this kingdom, 
260 


of Suffolk 


such ardour and zeal in the defense of laws and 
justice, was capable of doing one of the most 
scandalous acts of injustice, that of inducing 
and even forcing an innocent King, when in the 
languor of bodily infirmity, to exclude, under 
foolish suspicions and ill-founded pretexts, by 
a surreptitious and violent will, the lawful heirs 
of the crown, those who have been so recognized 
by will and by a legitimate act of open parlia- 
ment. 

Now, why do us this injustice Is it to call 
to the inheritance of the crown persons more 
remotely allied, of other blood, and other name, 
merely because they are your relations ? Is this 
the fair renown that the King our dear brother 
and sovereign lord, will, through your mad pas- 
sion, leave behind, if God should take him from 
us ^ Is this the mighty honor your lordship will 
gain, to make use of your present power, only 
to exclude from the succession the rightful 
daughters of King Henry our father, and the 
sisters of the father’s side of King Edward, to 
bring in the daughters of the Duke of Suffolk, 
who has had no other claim than that of having 
married one of our aunts ? 

261 


The Daughters 


Is this the illustrious glory that you are to 
acquire among foreign nations, when they shall 
know that, by your passion and ambition, are 
violated and broken the most sacred laws of this 
kingdom and the legitimate rights of the suc- 
cession to the throne ? 

However, we console ourselves in the hope, 
that heaven which is adverse to wrong done upon 
earth, will restore health to our royal brother, 
and give him time to discover that he has been 
over-reached and ill-counselled; and to your 
lordship time for repentance for your machina- 
tions against the glory of the King, the tranquillity 
of the kingdom, the laws of the state, the rights 
of the crown, and our individual interests. 
But if God wills otherwise, we hope that He, 
the guardian of Justice, will take in hand our 
cause, so trampled upon by your lordship; and 
that the parliament and the judges, who are the 
defenders of the laws and the crown, will draw 
us out of that oppression into which your ambi- 
tion has cast us. 

I remain, meanwhile, in that state in which 
you have placed me. 


262 


Elizabeth.” 


ELIZABETH 






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of Suffolk 


The Duke refolded the letter, and absent- 
mindedly wound the silken thread around it, 
over and over again. 

“Sweet sister Temperance,” he said, mock- 
ingly, and using the term by which the King 
spoke of his sister, “is in no pleasant mood.” 
Then, hearing a foot-fall near by, he hid the 
packet in his doublet, and, looking up met the 
benign face of Nicholas Ridley, Bishop of 
London. 

“No ill-tidings, I trust,” said the eminent 
prelate, “It would ill fit the good news I bring 
you.” The Duke read his face. “The King is 
better?” he asked, eagerly. 

“So much better,” answered the bishop, “that 
he wishes to be taken to Greenwich.” 

“And the Lady Jane?” asked the Duke, as 
he felt his courage returning, and his plans 
reforming. 

“The Lady Jane, acting on my advice, is 
willing to proceed with the ceremony after the 
King’s departure.” 

“Thank God,” said Dudley, fervently. 


XXII. 

A KING’S WILL 



LOWLY and feebly, the 
King rallied from the 
attack that had seized him 
in the house of North- 
umberland. Everything 
that science could do, 


and the physicians knew as little then as they 
do to-day, of a cure for consumption, was done 
to arrest the progress of the dread disease that 
was now rapidly nearing its end. The King, 
an earnest Protestant and now conscious of his 
approaching death, had been easily persuaded 
that if he neglected to make a will leaving the 
crown to Lady Jane, at that time the most 
learned and ardent in the new religion of any 
who were eligible to the crown; it would of a 
certainty fall to the Princess Mary, who was a 
devoted member of the Roman Catholic Church. 
The fear of such an event added zeal to the 
persuasions and entreaties of Edward’s advisers. 


264 


The Daughters of Suffolk 

For a brief period the King had contemplated 
making a will, setting aside the claims of the 
Princess Mary, and substituting those of his 
other sister the Princess Elizabeth; but, it was 
pointed out to him, that Elizabeth was but 
lukewarm in her protestant religion; could 
not be depended on to carry out the reforms 
of which he had been so earnest an advocate; 
and, that she “must also be set aside, because 
her father, Henry the Eighth, had by act of 
Parliament bastardized her, and if this act 
of bastardy were not acknowledged to be of 
force neither could the same act against Mary 
be binding.” 

So the King made his will, the draft of which 
drawn up in his own hand, was the document 
that the Duke of Northumberland so carefully 
concealed about his person. When the Council 
met he stated to them his wishes. There was 
present at the meeting Sir Edward Montague, 
chief justice of the common pleas. Sir Thomas 
Richard Baker, the chancellor of the Augmen- 
tations, together with other attorneys, who were 
noted specialists on parliamentary law. With 
one accord they decided that the act of Parlia- 
265 


The Daughters 


ment settled the right of succession, and that 
they could not change it. 

When the Duke of Northumberland heard 
these men speak he was livid with anger. 

“I have made them what they are,” he ex- 
claimed, “and now the rascally attorneys show 
their ingratitude.” 

He adjourned the Council, to meet a week 
later, “at which time, my masters,” he admon- 
ished them, “you will come fully convinced of 
its legality and prepared to sign the will.” 

On the 2 1st of June it received the signa- 
tures of the lords in Council, of almost all the 
judges, and of the attorneys and the solicitor 
general. Twenty-four members of the Council 
pledged their oaths to defend to the uttermost 
the will of the King; and if any man should ever 
attempt to alter it, to punish him as an enemy 
of the kingdom. 

The will declared that the descendants of 
Mary, sister of Henry the Eighth, were of the 
whole blood to Edward by the father’s side, that 
they were natural born within the realm, “very 
honorably brought up, and exercised in good 
and godly learning, and other noble virtues, so 
266 


of Suffolk 


that there is great trust and hope to be had in 
them that they be and shall be very well inclined 
to the advancement and setting forth of our 
commonwealth.” 

And, ‘‘the King doth, therefore, upon good 
deliberation and advice, herein had and taken, 
by these presents declare, order, assign, limit, 
and appoint, that if it shall fortune us to de- 
cease, having no issue of our body lawfully 
begotten, that then the said imperial crown and 
realm shall be unto the eldest son of the said 
Lady Frances, wife of the Duke of Suffolk, and 
granddaughter of Henry the Eighth lawfully 
begotten, being born into the world in our life 
time. ... in default of which to the Lady 
Jane, eldest daughter of the said Lady Frances.” 

The will was engrossed on parchment, signed 
by Edward, sealed with the great seal, to the 
great relief of Dudley, and carefully put away, 
until the young King’s death. 

Northumberland’s star was again in the as- 
cendant; nothing seemed to stand in the way 
of his ambition, nothing; save the perverse 
happenings, that men foolishly call. Chance. 


XXIII. 

FRIAR GROUCHE 


O Jane was married; and 
she and her sister Kath- 
arine were sitting in a 
small room, on the 
second floor of Sion 
House, a beautiful estate 
in the suburbs of London, that had been pre- 
sented to the Duke of Northumberland by King 
Edward. The room had been fitted up as a sort 
of studio, where Jane continued her study of 
the classics, and conducted her correspondence. 
As she bent over her desk, the voice of her sister 
came to her from the deep recesses of an open 
window that commanded a fine view of the river. 
“To whom are you writing, Jane ^ ’’ 

“To Henri Bullinger, at Zurich,’’ she replied, 
without raising her head. 

Katharine tossed an oaten cake to a small grey- 
hound that was playing at her feet, and laughed 
to see him catch it before it reached the floor. 

268 



The Daughters of Suffolk 

“Forsooth, in Latin,” she exclaimed, flip- 
pantly. Somehow Jane’s correspondence was 
of a kind that weighed heavily on her mind. 

“ On religious matters, of course ? ” she ven- 
tured. To both of which remarks Jane made 
no reply. 

“That old Swiss busybody.?” she added, 
mockingly. Then Jane laughed, much against 
her duty. “Thou chatter-box,” she said as she 
put away her writing materials and came to the 
window. “Thou rattlebrain.” 

Katharine shrugged her shoulders, after the 
French fashion, “ I may not have such knowledge 
as my learned sister; but, there are some things I 
know that everyone should know.” She stood up 
straight, expanding her chest and lowering her 
head, in the vain attempt to make a double chin, 
her whole attitude being one of matronly dignity. 

Jane burst into hearty laughter. “Kitty, you 
witch,” she exclaimed, “if the Duchess, my 
respected mother-in-law, were to see you now, 
mocking her, she would drive us both from the 
house.” 

Katharine’s face resumed its natural expres- 
sion. “Pshaw!” she said, haughtily. “I defy, 
269 


The Daughters 


” But just then, the door opened briskly, to 

admit the stately form of her Grace, the 
Duchess of Northumberland. Her sharp keen 
eyes went rapidly over the room, and rested, 
in undisguised disapproval on Katharine. 

“Idle, as usual,” she remarked loftily, in a 
high unmusical voice. 

Katharine flushed, as she stooped and made 
several frantic, but unsuccessful efforts, to rescue 
her embroidery from the playful grey-hound. 
“I was employed, but a moment ago,” she 
explained, like an abashed school girl. 

The Duchess laughed, scornfully. “Em- 
ployed,” she repeated, with withering emphasis. 
“I have never seen such deplorable ignorance 
of things that everyone should know.” 

Katharine’s eyes sought those of her sister, 
in rising mirth, as the familiar phrase sounded 
in her ears, but the latter prudently kept her 
face averted. 

“Jane,” asked the old lady, abruptly, “how 
many loaves are in a bushel of wheat ?” 

Jane’s face grew crimson with vexation. “I 
care not how many loaves are in a bushel, nor 
how many fish are in a pound,” she replied, 
270 


of Suffolk 


sharply ‘‘My father and my mother never 
brought me up with baking and cooking; such 
commonplace subjects do not interest me, I 
would leave them to the comptroller.” The 
Duchess held up her hands, and raised her eyes 
to the ceiling. “God a mercy!” she exclaimed, 
in astonishment that one so meek as Jane should 
answer so keenly. Then recovering from her 
first surprise, her anger arose, and she raised 
her voice, imprudently, “ then you should know 
better,” admonished the Duchess, “for when 
Guilford is made King, and you are the Queen, 
you should know the common things that con- 
cern the people.” 

Jane’s dark eyes opened wide in surprise. 
“When Guilford is King,” she repeated. 
“That will never happen,” she said, decidedly, 
“ and as to my chance of being the Queen, there 
are many lives, thank God, between me and so 
great a calamity.” 

“Think you so ?” replied the Duchess, hotly, 
for Jane’s calm demeanor, and her superior 
manner, together with the setting aside of Guil- 
ford’s ambitions, irritated her beyond endurance. 
“How many, think you, may there be?” 

271 


The Daughters 


Jane’s anger having abated, in proportion as 
the other’s increased, answered judicially. 

“There is Edward, the King, God save him; 
and the princesses, Mary and Elizabeth, and 
their issue; and my mother; all of these before 
the chance would come to me.” 

The Duchess was tormented with the im- 
portance of a secret that had been foolishly 
intrusted to her keeping. She was also annoyed 
at the indifference manifested by Jane and 
Katharine to her constant admonitions. She 
was as proud and ambitious as the Duke, her 
husband, but much more vain and foolish; and 
the thought that her son Guilford might soon 
be King of England, was more than she could 
keep to herself. 

“There is neither one or the others,” she 
exclaimed, hastily, “ save only Edward the King, 
and they have given up all hope of his recovery.” 

“What meaneth your Grace?” said Jane, in 
a fluttering voice; while her limbs began to 
tremble so that she could scarcely stand. 

The Duchess looked at the obedient girl with 
rapturous foretaste of things to come. “ I mean 
that the King has willed you his crown, for so 
272 


of Suffolk 


the Duke told me, and that only the poor rem- 
nant of his life is between you and the throne!” 

The eyes of the Duchess were sparkling with 
the excitement of anticipation, as she threw her 
arms around Jane’s slender body, and pressed 
the future Queen to her ample bosom. ‘‘Oh 
my beloved daughter!” she cried. “Think, 
Oh think of the happiness that awaits us when 
Guilford is made the King.” 

“When Guilford is made the King,” re- 
peated Jane in a puzzled voice, “you said, but 
just a moment gone, that I was to be the bene- 
ficiary of the King’s will, and now ’tis Guilford.” 

The Duchess withdrew her encircling arms, 
with celerity, “Ungrateful child,” she chided, 
“after all that the Duke has done for you.” 
Then as suddenly, her manner changing, she 
grasped Jane’s hand and kissed it fervently. 
“My gracious Sovereign and Queen, soon to 
be, accept the first homage, for I can wait no 
longer, of one who has ever been thy faithful 
friend and ” 

“Stop,” interrupted the now thoroughly 
frightened girl, as she quickly withdrew her 
hand. “I shall hear no more, you must be mad 
1 8 273 


The Daughters 


to utter such treason.’’ Then, bursting into 
tears, with nervous excitement, Jane hurriedly 
left the room, the Duchess trailing at her heels. 

Katharine, left alone, her blue eyes wide open 
in astonished surprise, sat staring out of the 
open window, trying to grasp the situation and 
its possibilities. As her eyes rested on the 
familiar view of the garden, the road, and the 
river beyond, she seemed to follow each detail 
with the most minute exactness. There was 
the wing of the mansion, devoted principally 
to the domestics; its walls covered with ivy, 
with openings for the windows and doors. The 
fruit trees; now green with foliage, instead of 
white with blossoms, and the hawthorn hedge, 
fragrant, sweet-smelling. She was staring at 
the lower branches of the hedge, when she saw 
a man creeping stealthily in its shadow. He 
was a ragged, unkempt figure of a man, and was 
clothed in what appeared to be a single garment, 
resembling a gown, that reached from his head to 
his dirty bare feet. The garment was tied at the 
middle with a piece of rope, and from the neck 
hung a hood or cowl. The man’s naked arms 
were visible, extending from wide open sleeves. 

274 


of Suffolk 


As Katharine watched his suspicious move- 
ments, the fellow chanced to raise his head 
toward the window; and, at the same time, the 
bright July sun fell full on his face. 

“Friar Grouche ! ’’ she exclaimed with a sudden 
nervous dread; as his squinting, bloated face 
shone clear and distinctly in the sunlight. “ What 
evil wind has blown him hither .? ” She withdrew 
somewhat farther from the window, hoping that 
the friar had not seen her; while she watched 
his movements with the eyes of an eaglet. 

In those days it was not uncommon for men 
of the friar’s profession to beg their daily wants 
from door to door, while wandering over the 
country. He belonged to an order of itinerant 
preachers, who carried neither food nor script 
in their purses; and they seldom went hungry. 

Keeping well in the shadow of the hedge and 
shrubbery, friar Grouche made his way cau- 
tiously towards the door of the kitchen. 

Knowing their habits, Katharine was at a loss 
to understand why a friar should go so stealthily 
about his business; and she was even more sur- 
prised to see him deliver a small bundle to one 
of the servants, instead of receiving alms. Her 
275 


The Daughters of Suffolk 


mind dwelt on the occurrence for some moments 
after the man had crept out of the garden, in 
much the same way that he had entered. 

“ It betokens no good,” she said to herself in 
a low voice, ‘‘ for ill-luck ever attends him.” 

She had hardly uttered the prediction when 
the door opened, quietly; and Marie, her maid 
entered. She held, extended in one hand, as far 
from her face as possible, a small bundle. It was 
addressed in Latin to: — “Joanna Graia,” and 
was wound about with a piece of greasy string. 

“It was left here by Monsieur le Diable,” 
explained Marie, “but, Mon Dieu, I thought 
first that we would examine the nasty thing.” 
She began to unwind the string, and removing 
several soiled wrappers, disclosed a small cake, 
resembling the oaten biscuit in common use. 

Katharine’s quick wit gave her sudden alarm. 

“Here, give it me, Marie.” She took the cake 
and attempted to fling it from the window. But 
it fell short of the mark, and the grey-hound, 
thinking that it was meant for him, began to 
eat it, and, in spite of Katharine’s frantic efforts 
to prevent it, swallowed the poisoned morsel. 

Within a few hours, the dog was dead. 

276 


XXIV. 

JANE THE QUEEN 







OW let the Lady Jane 
Grey tell the story, these 
I are her own words: 


“When it was publicly 
reported that there was no 
more hope for the King’s 


life, as the Duchess of Northumberland had 
before promised that I should remain in the 
house with my mother, so she, having understood 
this soon from her husband, who was the first 
that told it to me, did not wish me to leave my 
house, saying to me that if God should have 
willed to call the King to his mercy, of whose 
life there was no longer any hope, it would be 
needful for me to go immediately to the Tower, 
I being made by his Majesty heir of his realm. 
Which words being spoken to me thus unex- 
pectedly, put me in great perturbation, and 
greatly disturbed my mind, as yet soon after 
they oppressed me much more. 


277 



The Daughters 


But I, nevertheless, making little account 
of these words, delayed not to go from my 
mother. So that the Duchess of Northumber- 
land was angry with me and with the Duchess my 
mother, saying that, if she had resolved to keep 
me in the house, she should have kept her son, 
my husband, near her, to whom she thought I 
would certainly have gone, and she would have 
been free from the charge of me. And, in truth, 
I remained in her house two or three nights, but 
at length obtained leave to go to Chelsea, for 
my recreation, where soon after, being sick, I 
was summoned by the Council, giving me to 
understand that I must go that same night to 
Sion, to receive that which had been ordered for 
me by the King. And she who brought me this 
news was the Lady Sidney, my sister-in-law, the 
daughter of the Duke of Northumberland, who 
told me with extraordinary seriousness that it 
was necessary for me to go with her, which I did. 

“When we arrived there, we found no one, 
but soon after came the Duke of Northumber- 
land, the Marquis of Northampton, the Earl of 
Arundel, the Earl of Huntingdon, and the Earl 
of Pembroke. By which lords I was long held 
278 



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of Suffolk 


in conversation, before they announced to me 
the death of the King, especially by the Earls of 
Huntingdon and Pembroke, who, with un- 
wonted caresses and pleasantness, did me such 
reverence as was not at all suitable to my state, 
kneeling down before me on the ground, and in 
other ways making semblance of honouring me. 
And acknowledging me as their sovereign lady, 
so that they made me blush with infinite confu- 
sion, at length they brought to me the Duchess 
Frances my mother, the Duchess of Northumber- 
land, and the Marchioness of Northampton. 

“ The Duke of Northumberland, as Presi- 
dent of the Council, announced the death 
of King Edward, shewing afterwards what 
cause we had all to rejoice for virtuous and 
praiseworthy life that he had led, as also for his 
very good death. Furthermore, he pretended 
to comfort himself and the bystanders by prais- 
ing much his prudence and goodness, for the 
very great care that he had taken of his kingdom 
at the very close of his life, having prayed God 
to defend it from the Popish faith and to deliver 
it from the rule of his evil sisters. Pie then said 
that his Majesty had well weighed an act of 
279 


The Daughters 


parliament, wherein it was already resolved that 
whoever should acknowledge the most serene 
Mary, or the lady Elizabeth, and receive them 
as true heirs of the crown of England, and these 
should be held all for traitors, one of them having 
formerly been disobedient to her father, Henry 
the Eighth, and also to himself, concerning the 
truth of religion, and afterwards also capital 
enemies of the word of God, and both bastards. 

“ Wherefore in no manner did he wish 
that they should be heirs of him and of the 
crown, he being able in every way to disinherit 
them. And therefore, before his death, he gave 
order to the Council that, for the honour they 
owed to him, and for the love they bare to the 
realm and for the affection that was due to their 
country, they should obey this his last will. 

“ The Duke then added that I was the heir 
named by his Majesty to succeed to the crown, 
and that my sisters should likewise succeed me 
in case of my default of issue. 

“ At which words all the lords of the Council 
kneeled down before me, telling me that they 
rendered to me the honour that was due to my 
person, I being, of true and direct lineage, heir 
280 


of Suffolk 

to that crown, and that it became them in the 
best manner to observe that which with deliber- 
ate mind, they had promised to the King, even 
to shed their blood, exposing their own lives to 
death. Which things, as soon as I had heard, 
with infinite grief of mind, how I was beside 
myself stupefied and troubled, I will leave it to 
those lords who were present to testify, who saw 
me, overcome by sudden and unexpected grief, 
fall on the ground, weeping very bitterly, and 
then, declaring to them my insufficiency, I 
greatly bewailed myself for the death of so noble 
a prince, and at the same time turned myself 
to God, humbly praying and beseeching him, 
that if what was given to me was rightly and 
lawfully mine, his Divine Majesty would grant 
me such grace and spirit that I might govern it 
to his glory and service, and to the advantage 
of his realm. 

“ On the day following, as is known to every- 
one, I was conducted to the Tower, and shortly 
afterwards were presented to me by the Marquis 
of Winchester, Lord High Treasurer, the jewels, 
with which he also brought me the crown, 
although it had never been demanded from 
281 


The Daughters 


him by me or by any one in my name; and he 
further wished me to put it on my head, to try 
whether it really became me well or no. The 
which, although with many excuses, I refused to 
do, he nevertheless added that I might take it 
without fear and another also should be made 
to crown my husband with me. Which thing, I 
for my part, heard truly with a troubled mind, 
and with ill will, even with infinite grief and 
displeasure of heart. 

“And, after the said lord was gone and I 
was reasoning of many things with my husband, 
he assented that if he were to be made King, he 
would be made so by me, by act of parliament. 
But afterwards I sent for the Earls of Arundel 
and Pembroke, and said to them that, if the 
crown belonged to me, I should be content to 
make my husband a Duke, but would never 
consent to make him King. Which resolution 
of mine gave his mother, this my opinion being 
related to her, great cause for anger and dis- 
dain, so that she being very angry with me and 
greatly displeased, persuaded her son not to 
sleep with me any longer as he was wont to do, 
affirming to me moreover that he did not wish 
282 


of Suffolk 


in any wise to be a Duke but a King. So that I 
was constrained to send to him the Earls of 
Arundel and Pembroke, who had negotiated with 
him to come, from me, otherwise I knew that 
the next morning he would have gone to Sion. 

“ And thus in truth was I deceived by the 
Duke and the Council and ill treated by my hus- 
band and his mother. Moreover, as Sir John 
Gates has confessed, he the Duke, was the first 
to persuade King Edward to make me his heir. 
As to the rest, for my part, I know not what the 
Council may have determined to do, but I know 
for certain that twice during this time, poison 
was given to me, first in the house of the Duch- 
ess of Northumberland, and afterwards in the 
Tower, as I have the best and most certain testi- 
mony And all these things I have 

wished to say for the witness of my innocence 
and the disburdening of my conscience.’’ . . . 

Jane was not anxious to take upon herself 
the responsibility thrust upon her by the Duke 
of Northumberland. She well knew the danger 
that encompassed those who wore a crown, — 
the crown of England. 

283 


The Daughters 


“I am not so young/’ she said to those who 
sought to persuade her, “nor so little read in 
the guiles of Fortune, to suffer myself to be 
taken by them. If she enrich any, it is but to 
make them the subject of her spoil. If she raise 
others, it is but to pleasure herself with their 
ruin. What she adorned but yesterday, is to- 
day her pastime; and if I permit her to adorn 
and crown me, I must to-morrow suffer her to 
crush and tear me to pieces. Nay, with what 
crown does she present me ? A crown which 
has been violently and shamefully wrested from 
Katharine of Aragon, and made more unfor- 
tunate by the punishment of Anne Boleyn, and 
others who wore it after her; and why then would 
you have me add my blood to theirs, and be the 
third victim from whom this fatal crown may be 
ravished, with the head that wears it?” Thus 
pleaded the Lady Jane Grey. 

But, upon the solemn warnings, which 
amounted to threats, made to her by the Duke 
of Northumberland; that, unless she accepted 
the honor, the Princess Mary, as Queen, would 
punish with death her father, mother, sisters 
and husband, Jane tearfully consented to wear 
284 


of Suffolk 


the crown. This resolution being obtained, 
preparations were hastily made to have her pro- 
claimed the Queen. 

The day of her coronation a great crowd 
assembled in the vicinity of Durham House to 
view the procession that was to escort Jane to 
the Tower where she was to be crowned. 

London at this time contained a population 
of only 150,000 souls; but it was already noted 
for its fine streets and edifices; for its bridge 
over the Thames river consisting of nineteen 
arches of solid stone; for its cathedral of Saint 
Paul; and for its importance as a shipping port 
from which issued and arrived, from all parts 
of the world, “numerous ships of three and four 
hundred tons burthen.” It was governed by 
a body of about twenty-five persons called Aider- 
men, chosen from the wealthiest and most mon- 
eyed citizens; almost in the form of a republic, 
with unlimited power, “ so that neither the King 
nor the King’s ministers interfered in anything.” 

Here dwelt the real masters of England, and 
when they assembled in the streets to view the 
procession, they preserved “an ominous silence.” 
Not a cap was thrown into the air, not a voice 
285 


The Daughters 


was raised as the richly uniformed soldiers, “ the 
halberdiers dressed in striped hose of black and 
tawny, with velvet caps decked at the side with 
silver roses and doublets of murrey and blue 
cloth, embroidered on the front and at the back 
with the royal blazon, woven in gold,’’ passed 
along. Not a cheer greeted those who wore the 
magnificent liveries of the Duke of Northumber- 
land. 

As the procession advanced, the crowd could 
see the officers bearing the mace and the sword 
of state. Then came a body of knights and 
judges in their robes of scarlet. When the 
Aldermen and the Lord Mayor appeared, also 
in gorgeous crimson velvet, a shout of approval 
went up from the Londoners, but, it was in 
honor of the city officials and their insignia, of 
which they were vain, and not for John Dudley. 

As soon as the procession reached the river 
the participants were embarked in barges and 
departed for the Tower. The Thames was full 
of craft of all sorts that darted in and out and 
across the route of the royal procession, making 
much confusion; but, no flags fluttered from 
their peaks, no bright streamers of ribbon 
286 


HAMPTON COURT PALACE. ENTRANCE 









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of Suffolk 


adorned their sails, or oarlocks. They were 
there from curiosity, and their activity only pro- 
voked curses from those who took part in the 
procession, for their perverse interference. 

The people on shore watched the boats as 
they proceeded on their way, silently, indiffer- 
ently. There were no acclamations, no rejoic- 
ings; for the people hated Dudley. 

But it mattered little to him, for an hour 
afterwards Jane Grey, the wife of his son 
Guilford, was Queen of England; the govern- 
ment, the revenues, the fortified places, and 
the army were all in his hands. 

Beside that, he feared no foreign interfer- 
ence; the Emperor of Germany and the King 
of France were content to let such a purely 
domestic affair shape itself. The clergy also 
were with him. Nicholas Ridley, the most 
esteemed and respected prelate in England; 
and many other of the lesser clergy preached 
in favor of the change of dynasty. Only the 
common people opposed him. 

John Dudley’s star was at its zenith; his 
ambition had placed him where he must either 
remain stationary or fall. 

287 


« 



PART FOURTH 















XXV. 

BLOODY MARY 



HEN Friar Grouche 


emerged from the gar- 
den of Sion House, he 
returned in all haste to 
his Catholic confederates 
and told them all that he 


had heard, as he stood under the open window 
of Jane’s room. They were not long in sending 
word, by prearranged messengers, to the Prin- 
cess Mary. She awaited the death of the King, 
with calm confidence in the strength of her posi- 
tion. She was not aware of the clumsy attempt 
to poison the Lady Jane Grey; that was the 
work of an over-zealous underling. She knew 
that it was the Duke of Northumberland, alone, 
who was the head and front of the conspiracy 
to deprive her of the throne; her inheritance, 
and her hatred towards him only increased 
the more, as she was made aware, by her trusty 
spies, of his doings. Mary was now thirty-eight 




The Daughters 


years of age and unmarried; her life had been 
one of bitterness, of disappointments and humili- 
ation. Separated from her mother, accused of 
illegitimacy, offered in marriage to almost any 
one who would have her — and refused; in ill 
health, and unprepossessing in appearance; what 
stored up bitterness must have been in her heart, 
as she waited for Edward’s death. Then, when 
her school-master, a Catholic, was put to death 
for his religion; and the Countess of Salisbury, 
her dearest friend, also a Catholic, suffered the 
same fate; how she must have hated the Prot- 
estants, or Reformers. And her brother 
Edward, the King, who had tormented and 
persecuted her, by sending commissions to 
inquire about her domestic affairs; how she 
spent her time, how she prayed! It is not 
likely that she loved her brother the more, for 
having imprisoned her chaplain; and set ser- 
vants in her house to spy on her; it is doubtful 
whether she experienced any grief over the 
event when, at last, they told her that the King 
was dead. ... 

It was the practice of the Venetian Senate to 
demand from its ambassadors a full account of 
292 


of Suffolk 


the courts and countries to which they had been 
accredited. From the report made by Giovanni 
Michele, presented to the Doge and Senate of 
Venice, upon his return from his Embassy to 
England, we have the following description of 
the Princess Mary: 

“She is of short stature, well made, and 
moderately pretty; her eyes are so lively that 
she inspires reverence and respect and even 
fear, whenever she turns them; nevertheless she 
is very short sighted. Her voice is deep, almost 
like that of a man. She understands five lan- 
guages; English, Latin, French, Spanish, and 
Italian, in which last, however, she does not 
venture to converse. 

“ She is also much skilled in ladies’ work, such 
as producing all sorts of embroidery with the 
needle. She has a knowledge of music, chiefly 
on the lute, on which she plays exceedingly well. 
As to the qualities of her mind, it may be said of 
her that she is rash, disdainful, and parsimoni- 
ous rather than liberal. She is endowed with 
great humility and patience, but withal high 
spirited, courageous and resolute; having during 
the whole course of her adversity been guiltless 

293 


The Daughters 


of any the least approach to meanness of com- 
portment; she is, moreover, devout and staunch 
in the defence of her religion. 

“Some personal infirmities under which she 
labors are the causes to her of both public and 
private affliction; to remedy these, recourse is 
had to frequent blood-letting, and this is the 
real cause of her paleness and the general weak- 
ness of her frame.’' 

Such is the picture of Mary, as sketched by 
one who had frequently seen and conversed 
with her. When the news reached her that the 
King was no more, she was at her devotions, at 
Keninghall, in the county of Norfolk. The 
castle was situated in the middle of a forest and 
was difficult of access, so that she could not be 
taken by surprise; and to this circumstance is 
due the first failure of Northumberland, inas- 
much that he did not secure her person. 

By reliable messengers she then sent a letter 
to the Council, asking why she had not been 
officially informed of her brother’s death; and 
that she would at once take the necessary steps 
to have her rights proclaimed. The Council 
replied to this letter that she was illegitimate, 
294 


of Suffolk 


disinherited, and that they had already recog- 
nized the claims of Lady Jane Dudley. 

This was Mary’s opportunity. 

She went into Suffolk, the enemy’s country, 
proclaimed herself the Queen, and assuring the 
Protestants that she would not change the laws 
of Edward, nor the form of religion that he had 
established, she soon had the satisfaction of 
seeing the people, the common people, ranging 
themselves under her banner. They came by 
tens, and they came by fifties, and hundreds, 
anxious to enlist in her cause; so that, in a very 
few days she found herself at the head of over 
thirty thousand men, resolved to fight to the 
death, to place her on the throne of her father. 

Now, it was evident that if Northumberland 
was to continue his prestige, he must do so by 
force of arms. All his cunning, all his di- 
plomacy, all his hypocrisy and subtleties by 
which he had succeeded in reaching the goal 
of his ambition, in placing the Lady Jane Grey 
on the throne of England, must now give way 
to an open fight, on a fair field with no favors. 
Hastily gathering together his forces in London, 
he found himself in command of about ten 

295 


The Daughters 


thousand men, of whom two thousand were 
mounted. But few of the little army were in 
sympathy with his cause; a number threatened 
to desert at the first favorable opportunity, and 
many were of foreign birth, and Catholics. 

The Princess Mary conducted her cause 
with the most remarkable skill and vigor. She 
was not long in establishing her rights. The 
rapid success which crowned her efforts, to 
dispossess her cousin from the position that 
she had usurped, rendered Jane’s situation 
extremely dangerous; and tore aside the veil 
of ambition, which, until then, had blinded 
Northumberland. 

He had raised his forces, which were quartered 
in London; but, suspicious, with reason, of the 
faith of his colleagues, and of the effect of his 
absence from the capital, he resolved to stay 
near Jane, and persuaded her father, the Duke 
of Suffolk, to take command of the army. But, 
the filial tenderness of the young Queen, excited 
by those who desired the absence of Northum- 
berland, made her sensible of the danger to 
which her father would be exposed; and these 
considerations, joined to the knowledge that 
296 



Marit I. 


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)/ Suffolk 


Northumberland had more capacity than Suf- 
folk, decided her to place him at the head of her 
troops. 

Before his departure, he represented to the 
Council, the peril that the Queen would be in 
during his absence, and he cautioned them that 
her peril would also be theirs. 

Then, the Duke of Northumberland, accom- 
panied by the Marquis of Northampton, Lord 
Grey, and several other nobles, advanced to 
meet the troops of Mary. When they passed 
through Shoreditch, the people maintained a 
sullen silence, so that Northumberland remarked 
to Lord Grey: “The people run to see us, but 
no one says, God be with you.’’ Before they 
arrived at Bury Saint Edmund, the Duke found 
his forces too weak to give battle to Mary’s 
army; and he wrote from the camp to the Council 
for reinforcements. Under the pretext of exe- 
cuting his commands, the Council took the 
opportunity of leaving the Tower, the better 
to preserve their persons in safety and made 
efforts to raise the necessary troops. But they 
found it difficult to recruit men who were will- 
ing to fight against Mary; and the part of the 
297 


The Daughters 


army that had been left in London, also showed 
unmistakable signs of attachment to her cause. 
These circumstances and Mary’s solicitations, 
in which she promised pardon to all who would 
join her, caused the collapse of “the conspiracy.” 
Arundel was the first to throw aside the mask 
that covered his real sentiments; and in an 
assembly which was held in Bayard Castle, the 
residence of the Earl of Pembroke, this lord, 
who, with the others had just previously sworn 
to shed his blood to defend Jane Grey, now spoke 
loudly of the cruelty and injustice of Northum- 
berland ; of his excessive ambition ; of his criminal 
designs by which he had compromised all the 
Council; he ended his speech by saying, that the 
only way to expiate their crimes was to immedi- 
ately recognize the rights of their legitimate 
Sovereign. 

Pembroke seconded his motion with ardor 
and said, as he threw up his bonnet, that he had 
determined to maintain the rights of Mary 
against all comers. 

Within one week Mary was publicly pro- 
claimed the Queen. The people received the 
heralds with joyful acclamations; very different 
298 


of Suffolk 

from those accorded to poor Jane Grey, only 
a few days before. Neither ambition or diplo- 
macy could now hide Jane’s deplorable condi- 
tion. Northumberland, knowing that his for- 
tune and his life were at stake, returned to Cam- 
bridge; where, abandoning the Queen whom 
he had himself placed on the throne, he loudly 
proclaimed Mary, Queen of England. His 
army promptly went to pieces, each man caring 
for his own safety, and a week later he was 
arrested by his false friend, Arundel, on the 
charge of high-treason, and conducted to the 
Tower. . . . 

A month after Northumberland was led 
forth to his execution on Tower Hill. 

Thus ended the towering ambitions of John 
Dudley, Earl of Warwick, Duke of Northumber- 
land, and at one time Master of England. Had 
his fate resulted only in his own punishment, 
there would have been few to lament his sudden 
death; but, his machinations had involved the 
innocent Jane, and she too must suffer the 
extreme penalty of the law for a crime of which 
she was entirely innocent. 

Immediately after the Duke’s arrest, Jane 
299 


The Daughters 


Dudley and her husband, also her father and 
mother, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, were 
imprisoned in the Tower, accused of the crime 
of high treason. Queen Mary, cruel and vindic- 
tive, gave rigorous orders to have the prisoners 
put in separate rooms and to begin an immediate 
prosecution. 

Fully convinced of the futility of their defense, 
Guilford and Jane, the two victims, pleaded 
guilty, and the sentence of death was pronounced 
against them. 

Then began a weary imprisonment for Jane; 
during which time her rare courage and forti- 
tude never forsook her. She not only bore her 
own sorrow bravely, but, at the same time she 
sought to cheer and console those of her family 
and companions who were dear to her heart. 
To her father she wrote the following letter: 

“Father: Although it hath pleased God to 
hasten my death by you, by whom my life should 
rather have been lengthened, yet I can so pa- 
tiently take it, that I yield God more hearty 
thanks for shortening my wofull days, than if 
all the world had been given into my possession, 
300 


of Suffolk 


with life lengthened at my own will. And albeit 
I am very well assured of your impatient dolours, 
redoubled many ways, both in bewailing your 
own woe and especially, as I am informed, my 
wofull estate; yet my dear father, if I may, with- 
out offense, rejoice in my own mishaps, herein 
I may account myself blessed, that washing my 
hands with the innocence of my intentions, my 
guiltless blood may cry before the Lord, Mercy 
to the innocent! And yet though I must needs 
acknowledge, that being constrained, and, as 
you know well enough continually persuaded, 
yet in taking it upon me, I seemed to consent, 
and therein grievously offended the Queen and 
her laws, yet do I assuredly trust that this my 
offence towards God is so much the less; in, that 
being in so royal a state as I was placed, the 
honor forced upon me never mingled with mine 
innocent heart. 

And thus, good father, I have shown you my 
present state, my death near at hand. Although 
to you perhaps it may seem wofull, yet to me 
there is nothing that can be more welcome than 
from this vale of misery to aspire to that heav- 
enly throne of all joy and pleasure, with Christ 
301 


The Daughters 


my Saviour: in whose steadfast faith (if it may 
be lawful for the daughter so to write to the 
father) the Lord that hath hitherto strengthened 
you, so continue to keep you, that at the last we 
may meet in heaven with the Father, Son and 
Holy Ghost. 

I am your obedient daughter till death, 

Jane Dudley.’’ 

There was another message to her father, 
written in a prayer book a few days before her 
death : 

“The Lord comfort your Grace, and that in 
his word wherein all creatures only are to be 
comforted. And although it hath pleased God 
to take away two of your children: yet think 
not, I most humbly beseech your Grace, that 
you have lost them; but trust that we, leaving 
this mortal life, have won an immortal life. 
And I, for my part, as I have honored your 
Grace in this life, will pray for you in another 
life. 

Your Grace’s humble daughter, 

Jane Dudley.” 


302 


of Suffolk 


To poor, heart-broken Katharine, Jane sent 
her last message. It was written the night 
before her death, at the end of her Greek testa- 
ment: 

‘T have sent you, my dear sister Katharine, 
a book, which although it be not outwardly 
trimmed with gold, or the curious embroidery 
of the artfullest needles, yet inwardly it is worth 
more than all the precious mines which the vast 
world can boast of; it is the book, my only best, 
and best beloved sister, of the law of the Lord; 
it is the Testament and last will, which he be- 
queathed unto us wretches and wretched sin- 
ners, which shall lead you to the path of eternal 
joy, and if you with a good mind read it, and 
with an earnest desire follow it, no doubt it shall 
bring you to an immortal and everlasting life; 
it will teach you to live and learn you to die; it 
shall win you more and endow you with greater 
felicity, than you should have gained possession 
of our woful father’s lands; for as if God had 
prospered him, you should have inherited his 
honours and manors, so if you apply diligently 
this book, seeking to direct your life according 

.303 


The Daughters 


to the rule of the same, you shall be an inheritor 
of such riches, as neither the covetous shall with- 
draw from you, neither the thief shall steal, 
neither yet the moths corrupt; desire with David, 
my best sister, to understand the law of the 
Lord our God, live still to die, that you by death 
may purchase eternal life, and trust not that 
the tenderness of your age shall lengthen your 
life: for unto God, when he calleth, all hours, 
times and seasons are alike, and blessed are they 
whose lamps are furnished when he cometh, for 
as soon will the Lord be glorified in the young 
as in the old. 

My good sister let me once more again, en- 
treat thee to learn to die; deny the world, defy 
the devil, and despise the flesh, and delight 
yourself only in the Lord; be penitent for your 
sins, and yet despair not; be strong in faith, yet 
presume not; and desire with Saint Paul to be 
dissolved and to be with Christ, with whom, 
even in death there is life. 

Be like the good servant, and even at midnight 
be waking, lest when death cometh and stealeth 
upon you, like a thief in the night, you be with 
the servants of darkness found sleeping, and 

304 . 


)f Suffolk 


lest for lack of oil you be found like the live 
foolish virgins, or like him that had not on the 
wedding garment and then you be cast into 
darkness, or banished from the marriage; rejoice 
in Christ, as I trust you do, and seeing you have 
the name of a Christian, as near as you can 
follow the steps and be a true imitator of your 
master Christ Jesus, and take up your cross, lay 
your sins on his back and always embrace him. 

Now as touching my death, rejoice as I do, 
my dearest sister, that I shall be delivered of this 
corruption, and put on incorruption; for I am 
assured that I shall, for losing of a mortal life, 
win one that is immortal, joyful, and everlasting; 
the which I pray God grant you in his most 
blessed hour, and send you his all-saving grace 
to live in his fear, and to die in the true Christian 
faith; from which in God’s name I exhort you 
that you never swerve, neither through hope of 
life, nor fear of death; for if you will deny his 
truth, to give length to a weary and corrupt 
breath, God himself will deny you, and by 
vengeance make short what you by your soul’s 
loss would prolong; but if you will cleave to him, 
he will stretch forth your days to an uncircum- 

20 305 


The Daughters of Suffolk 

scribed comfort, and to his own glory, to the 
which glory, God bring me now, and you here- 
after, when it shall please him to call you. 

Farewell once again, my beloved sister, and 
put your only trust in God, who only must help 
you. Amen. 

Your loving sister, 

Jane Dudley.” 

The next day, after this message to Katharine 
had been written, there was committed the most 
damnable murder that has ever stained the 
pages of English history. 

Jane Grey, a beautiful young girl of seventeen 
years, a model of womanly virtues, a dutiful 
daughter, a loving wife; learned, courageous, a 
devout Christian, innocent of any crime; this 
lovely being was led to the block and deliber- 
ately executed! . . . 

Thus died, the oldest daughter of Suffolk, 
after a reign of nine days and an imprisonment 
of seven months: the unfortunate Lady Jane 
Grey. 



THE MOST IIAMNAREE MURDER 



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XXVI. 

THE VIRGIN QUEEN 



HE wind blew fiercely 
around the old grey 
corners, and weather- 
beaten gables of Brad- 
gate. It whistled with 
a shrill, angry note; 
) and lamented with a 


wild cry, as it rushed through the naked tree 
branches. Ever and anon it burst with a sudden 
fury of noise and tempest, against the casement 
windows of the old mansion. It twisted and 
swirled, abated and increased again, with re- 
newed force, as if it sought to penetrate and 
destroy the time-worn structure. Then, failing 
in its efforts, it would die away into a plaintive 
sigh, into a sullen, fitful moaning, accompanied 
by rain drops, that trickled down the walls of 
the ancient pile; like tears, slowly falling across 
the furrowed features of an old man. 

The broad sweep of gravelled road, that had 


307 



The Daughters 

formerly led the numerous mounted visitors to 
the hospitable front door of Henry Grey, was 
now overgrown with tangled masses of dead 
weeds and grass; and only a narrow muddy 
path circling around to the servants’ quarters, 
designated the way by which a stranger on foot 
could gain admittance to the building. A few 
of the glass panes in the leaded sashes of the 
windows were broken, and in their place were 
stuffed bunches of old rags to keep out the cold. 

Apparently the house was untenanted; but, 
from one of the tall chimneys, that sprung from 
an angle of the court yard, a thin spiral of smoke, 
struggling to arise from the brick flue, was 
speedily overtaken by the wind, and scattered 
into little curling wreaths, that seemed to vanish 
as soon as they appeared above the chimney 
top. 

Into this region of neglect came, like a whirl- 
wind, a galloping horse and rider. Stopping 
suddenly before the park gate, the man dis- 
mounted and led his tired horse along the 
devious windings of the tangled footpath. 
Turning aside from it he entered the court yard 
and halted before a flight of stone steps that led 
308 


of Suffolk 


from the long-neglected garden to a small 
terrace above. In the stone balustrade were 
several large iron cressets, fixed on ornamental 
brackets. They were blackened by the smoke 
of former flaring torches, and were eaten and 
scaly with rust. To one of these irons the unex- 
pected visitor to Bradgate tied his horse; then, 
unrolling a blanket from his saddle bow, he 
covered the sweating and trembling beast from 
neck to flank. 

“ Poor old Homer,” he said compassionately. 

I pressed you too hard the last hour, perhaps, 
and nothing to feed on, but dead thorns and 
rubbish at our journey’s end.” He patted the 
powerful animal on his neck, felt the wild heart- 
beats at this chest and spoke encouragingly: 

“One more mile, my poor horse, like the last, 
and I had done you an injury.” The thorough- 
bred tossed his head and then rubbed his nose 
affectionately against his master’s shoulder. 
“But,” he added joyfully, as his eyes ranged 
from the curling smoke at the top of the chimney 
to its base in the court angle, “yonder smoke 
must come from the fireplace in her room, and, 
there must be someone there.” 


309 


The Daughters 


So saying he ran up the old moss-grown stone 
steps and stood, irresolutely, on the terrace of 
Katharine Grey’s room. 

While he paused there for a moment, breath- 
less with expectation, and consumed by an 
anxious dread of what might have occurred 
during his absence, there flashed across his 
brain one of those instantaneous impressions 
in which the mind is enabled, by some unknown 
eflFort of memory, to recall a previous event, 
and to present in an instant a scene, in all its 
details. 

He had a vision of Katharine’s room, as he 
had seen it on Christmas eve, just five long 
years before, when he had suddenly appeared 
before them in his minstrel’s disguise, and had 
left the sisters in a fit of rage. He recalled the 
blissful sensation that he had experienced, when 
he had carried Katharine’s lithe, beautiful, body 
as she lay unconscious in his arms. He saw 
again the narrow bed with its red curtains, and 
the little table with all of her personal belong- 
ings. And the cheery fire in the grate, contrast- 
ing with the pot of flowering jasamine. 

Then he raised his hand to knock on the case- 


310 


of Suffolk 


merit window. As he did so it opened, almost 
immediately, disclosing the bloated, leering, face 
of Friar Grouche! 

“My lord Seymour,’’ said the black friar, 
who had been watching young Edward’s move- 
ments through the window, from the time when 
he had passed through the park gates, “in what 
way,” he asked with a bow of mock humility, 
“can a poor friar serve so distinguished a 
visitor ?” 

For answer the young man, recovering quickly 
from his surprise at meeting so unexpected and 
disagreeable a visitor in Katharine’s room, sud- 
denly seized the man by the throat-latch of his 
dirty cowl, and pulled him bodily through the 
open window. Then, turning him so that he 
faced the garden, he applied the toe of his heavy 
riding boot to the friar’s person, in such a man- 
ner and with such force, as to send that luck- 
less person half way down the flight of stone 
steps. 

“There, you maggot, you pest!” he called 
after the priest. “You can best serve me by con- 
tinuing on to your Abbot, and by telling him 
that Bloody Mary of hateful memory, is dead. 

311 


The Daughters 

Also that Edward Seymour is master of Brad- 
gate by the grace of our Protestant Queen, 
Elizabeth.” 

A wild cry of joy, mingled with sobs and 
hysterical sounds, coming to Edward from the 
inner side of the window, caused him to leap 
hastily into the room. There, he found Katha- 
rine and her widowed mother, the Duchess of 
Suffolk, locked in each other’s arms, and giving 
free vent to their emotions. . . . 

Friar Grouche picked himself up from the 
hard steps and rubbed a bruised shin. Then he 
looked with an evil eye at the retreating form 
of Seymour as he disappeared through Katha- 
rine’s window. “May all the devils in Hell 
torment you forever,” he called, after the case- 
ment had been closed, “you and your heretic 
Queen. My curse upon you and yours to the 
end of time!” 

Then his malignant glance fell on Homer, 
who had been too tired and leg-weary to shy, 
even at a monk tumbling down the stairs in 
front of his nose. The friar’s squinting eyes 
lighted with the thought of vengeance. ''Alia 
tentanda via esty* he said in Latin. “There are 
312 


of Suffolk 


more ways than one in which an humble servant 
of the church can do a good work, bonus dormi- 
tat Homerus; my sleeping beauty, I will take 
you where you can have your nap in peace/’ 

He uncovered Homer, and put the blanket 
over his own shoulders. Then he led the horse 
away, into the deep recesses of Charnwood 
forest. 

Meanwhile Edward Seymour was doing his 
best to relate to the happy women, the principal 
happenings of five years, condensed into a narra- 
tive of an hour’s telling. He related to them the 
story of his wanderings in France. How he had 
joined the army of the Huguenots, and how he 
had fought under the leadership of Prince 
Louis of Cond4. And of the time when, hard 
pressed for a hiding place, he had found refuge 
in a little Provengal village, in a cottage belong- 
ing to Jacques and Marie, who had married 
and settled on the dear soil of France, never to 
wander again. How he had kept himself in- 
formed of the occurrences in his native land by 
means of an occasional correspondence with 
his sister Jane Seymour. How she had written 
him of the horrible deaths of the good Protest- 
313 


The Daughters 


ant bishops; Ridley, Latimer, Cranmer, all 
burnt at the stake on warrants of Queen Mary. 
Of the latter’s marriage to Philip of Spain. Of 
the imprisonment of Elizabeth, of those days 
of terror, and nights of mental torture. Then 
the joyful news had come to him that the Queen 
Mary could do no more harm; that she was 
dead. 

Then Katharine in turn told Seymour how 
poor old Sir John Cheke had been forcibly 
dragged from his home by Queen Mary’s officers, 
and thrust into one of the loathsome dungeons 
of the Tower. How the sensitive scholar had 
begged and petitioned the Queen to release 
him; and how he had finally gained his freedom 
by abjuring his religion; a price so great that it 
laid on the poor man’s conscience until he died 
of remorse, shortly after. How she had longed 
and prayed for her absent lover, — for him. And 
she showed him his ring which had never been 
removed from her finger since he had placed it 
there. But, when she essayed to speak of her 
father, and of her sister, Jane, her voice quavered 
and her throat swelled so that she could say no 
more. 


314 


of Suffolk 


Her mother continued the recital of many 
things that had occurred in Seymour’s absence. 
In calm, even, tones the Duchess related how, 
after the execution of her husband and daughter, 
Mary, the Queen, had commanded them to re- 
turn to Bradgate, and to place themselves under 
the direction and instructions of the Abbot. She 
told him how the friars from the Abbey, near by, 
had descended upon the estate like a swarm of 
locusts, and had devoured everything that 
could be eaten; so that many times they had 
faced starvation, for want of the plainest food. 
Then, what the priestly beggars had not con- 
sumed they had stolen, and carried away; so 
that there was but one poor cow left in the stable, 
and not a single horse, of all the noble animals 
that once fattened in their spacious quarters. 

The Duchess heaved a deep sigh, as she 
stretched out her cold hands towards the flicker- 
ing blaze that slowly licked the irons, while it 
scarcely consumed the few small faggots. In 
those hands Seymour saw the unfailing signs 
of suffering, to which the poor woman had been 
subjected. They were thin, white, and almost 
transparent. The veins stood out prominently 

315 


The Daughters 


from the flesh, which was pinched and sunken. 
As she held them outstretched towards the 
cheerless blaze, in which there was so little 
warmth, he noticed that the fingers remained 
crooked, and her hands only half open, as though 
she lacked the strength or inclination to open 
them fully. And, as his eyes went further 
around the room, he saw many other evidences 
of the miserable poverty that had so quickly 
overtaken the house of Henry Grey. 

Across the door, leading into the great hall, 
heavy planks had been roughly nailed, so that 
it could not be opened. ‘‘We never use that 
part of the house’’ explained Katharine in a half 
whisper, “since, — since,” — her voice failed her, 
and she hung her head to hide her tears. 

“Yes, I know,” said Seymour gently. And 
as he swallowed the lump that arose in his throat, 
he made a resolution that whatever life he had 
left should be spent in comforting and caring 
for the stricken girl, who sat nervously trem- 
bling by his side. 

“We use this room only, my mother and 
myself, while Adrian, the gate-keeper, cares 
for us; he is the only servant left on the place.” 

316 





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of Suffolk 


‘‘And I have not even a squire,” said Edward, 
as a smile overspread his features. “The 
moment after my audience with the Queen, I 
took the road with Homer, and nothing save 
what the saddle bags would carry, and here we 
are on the next day, my good horse alone for 
company.” 

“Good Homer,” said Katharine, with kin- 
dling interest in life’s affairs, “He shall have my 

loaf of oat-meal as a reward for, — for ” 

She paused in some confusion, as she looked 
into the eager face of her lover. 

“For what.?” he said, as he gazed into the 
frank blue eyes, longing for a confession of her 
love. She returned his gaze, steadily, “For 
bringing you here,” she honestly avowed. 

“Where is the horse ?” interrupted the Duch- 
ess, with practical directness. “We have no 
beast of any kind, saving one old cow, in the 
stables, and shall have great need of Homer to 
help us out of this wilderness.” She shivered 
and drew an old shawl closely around her shoul- 
ders. Then she walked to the casement and 
looked down on the court-yard below. 

Edward followed her to the window. “He 

317 


The Daughters of Suffolk 


is there, at the foot of the steps, tied to the — to 

the ” As he spoke his gaze ranged the stone 

steps from top to bottom, and the words died 
away on his lips, for Homer was not anywhere 
to be seen. 

Seymour carefully examined the iron bracket, 
to which he had tied him, and seeing no evidence 
of a struggle, in which the horse might have 
broken his fastenings, he searched the muddy 
ground for foot-prints; and soon discovered 
those made by friar Grouche and the horse, 
which he followed as far as the bridle path that 
led to the Abbey, through Charnwood forest. 

‘‘So,” mused Edward, with rising anger. 
“My friend the priest has me again in his debt: 
I thought to have settled matters between us, 
but as he has pointed out the way, I shall follow 
his lead, and demand horses and subsistence 
sufficient to take us away from this desolate 
place; I doubt if the fat Abbot will ignore the 
seal of Elizabeth.” 

Then, adjusting his sword and dagger, and 
carefully testing their condition, he stepped 
cautiously into the path that wound through 
the forest to the Abbey. 

318 


XXVII. 

HOMERUS 


HE keen biting wind fell 
to a chilly breeze that 
nipped the bare legs of 
Friar Grouche, as he 
noiselessly led Seymour’s 
horse along the wet and 
slippery path. As he 
emerged from the forest into a broad sweep of 
pasture land, he stopped and peered back into 
the forest; then he listened intently, but hearing 
no sound save that of dripping water, and the 
flutter of a half starved bird that had followed 
him in the hope of receiving a discarded crust 
of bread, he gathered the reins around Homer’s 
neck. 

“My faith,” he said, crossly, as the thought 
struck him. “Why should I walk like a beggar 
and an empty saddle within reach of my leg ? 
Here! Homerus, stand still, you fool!” As he 
spoke he made several futile efforts to get his 

319 




The Daughters 


foot into one of Homer’s dangling stirrups. But 
the intelligent animal seemed loath to permit so 
scurvy an individual to mount him; and kept 
turning round and round, forging and plunging 
over slippery hillocks and splashing into the 
muddy places. The friar had some difficulty 
in holding fast to the end of the leading rein. 

“You devil,” said the priest, impatiently, “I 
might as well have an eel by the tail.” Again 
he attempted to mount, but the horse laid back 
his ears and made frantic efforts to bite him. 

Then the friar grew wary, and his spirit was 
aroused. He looked calmly into the big angry 
eyes of Homer, while he recalled a trick that he 
had learned as a boy; in those old days, when, 
as a vassal of the lord Abbot, he had lived on 
one of the little farms belonging to the Abbey. 
Those days when he stole wood from the forest 
and killed forbidden deer with his cross-bow; 
for which latter offence he confessed, and suf- 
fered no punishment, if a fore-quarter of the 
animal was left at the Abbey kitchen. Those 
days before he had developed a longing for 
knowledge of a higher order, the boy could steal 
a horse from pasture, and ride away many a 
320 


of Suffolk 


mile on night forays, the nature of which added 
nothing to his reputation amongst other tenants 
of the Abbot. He remembered the trick. 

Running his hand quietly, but firmly down 
one of the horse’s forelegs he raised his foot; 
then with a push, and a dexterous sharp pull 
of the bridle rein, he threw the horse with vio- 
lence to the ground. As the surprised animal 
regained his feet, the friar adroitly vaulted into 
the saddle. “Now, my Homerus,” he said 
exultingly, a flush of his old vagabond courage 
coursing through his veins, as he gathered the 
reins firmly in his strong hands, “one more test 
of a friar’s horsemanship, — then away for the 
Abbey.” 

He dug his sandalled heels into the horse’s 
belly; and Homer pranced and curvetted around 
the blanket that had fallen to the ground. The 
friar rose in his stirrups, and sniffed the keen air 
that came sweeping over the open country. The 
smell of the wet ground reminded him of a 
former life. The wide stretch of moor, as viewed 
from the back of a restive horse, had a new and 
delightful interest for him. He tried to recall 
the circumstances under which he had seen it 


21 


321 


The Daughters 

before, under similar conditions. Then, he 
tried to pick up the blanket; but Homer shied 
and pranced around so that he could not get it. 
A broad smile came over the face of the priest. 

“ So, you wont let me get the blanket, foolish 
Homerus: do you know that I could make you 
walk over it on your hind legs ? ” 

The friar’s squinting eyes were blazing with 
excitement, as he struggled for mastery over 
the powerful beast; but he sat firmly, and 
gripped the horse between his sinewy knees 
like a vise. 

His blood was stirred with the recollection 
of his youth; of a time when he had borne the 
dubious honor of having been the hardest man 
to catch, on horseback, of any thief in the county. 
An iron cross hung suspended by a stout chain 
from his girdle. Managing the horse easily 
with one hand, he unclasped the cross and chain 
so that it swung free in his other hand. Then, 
cantering away some distance, he came around 
in a wide circle; and, dealing the horse a sting- 
ing blow on his flank, with the iron cross, he 
rushed, at a full run, towards the blanket. In 
another instant he slid down flat on the horse’s 
322 


of Suffolk 


neck, and hanging to the animal with one arm 
and leg, he skilfully picked the blanket from the 
ground, and threw it across his saddle bow. 
Then he gradually brought the madly excited 
horse to a quiet trot. 

There was so much grace and skill exhibited 
in the action, that it would have taken a poorer 
horseman than Edward Seymour, to refrain 
from clapping his hands and applauding the 
priest. 

The latter had taken no account of the direc- 
tion in which he had been cavorting over the 
country; and when he had brought Homer to a 
walk, he found himself at the edge of the forest 
from which Seymour had emerged in time to 
witness the whole performance. 

“By the gods!” he exclaimed as he took his 
horse by the bridle, “and I had not seen it with 
mine own eyes, within the last minute, I would 
have wagered a thousand gold pieces the horse 
would kill you. Small wonder that you took 
the beast, and you such a rider! Come Friar,” 
he went on, as the man slipped in much confusion 
from the horse’s back, “you are too good a fellow 
to spend your life crawling through the cells of 

323 


The Daughters 


yonder Abbey, like a maggot through cheese. 
Join with us, and I will give you the mate of 
Homer for your mount.” 

Again the vagabond blood in the friar thrilled 
with the thought; the call of the fields was still 
upon him. His heart beat manfully at the sug- 
gestion that Edward made; of a gold hiked 
sword ; of a thoroughbred horse ; of a life of 
travel and adventure ; of plenty to eat, and 
better, — to drink. Then the thought came over 
him that the Catholic Queen Mary was dead ; 
and there would doubtless be hard times ahead 
for the Abbeys, under the Protestant Queen 
Elizabeth. He hesitated for a moment, and then 
made answer: 

“ I bear you no grudge my lord. The rough 
treatment that you gave me, awhile past, I have 
charged to the hot blood of youth. We are both 
men.” He stopped, and hung his head; then 
he raised his eyes. “There was a time — ” He 
stopped short. For a moment the face of the 
friar glowed with an inner light, that made his 
ugly features actually pleasant to look upon. 
Then, as if ashamed of showing to another even 
a glimpse of the good that was within, his man- 

324 


)f Suffolk 


ner abruptly changed; and his face hardened 
to its habitual cunning. 

“Thanks, my lord, for the chance you have 
made me; but, I am only a poor friar, and must 
remain so, — one of the least of the Brethren.’’ 

“Then,” said Seymour, disdainfully, as he 
mounted Homer, and settled himself comforta- 
ably, in the saddle, “do you walk ahead, and 
show me the shortest path to the Abbey, the 
evening comes apace and I need the assistance 
of your lord, the Abbot.” 


XXVIII. 

UNTIL DEATH 


O Katharine Grey joy 
came on a summer 
morning in the year 
1 560, when she and 
Jane Seymour, her con- 
stant companion, re- 
ceived a summons to 
appear at Court, as Maids of Honor to the 
Queen. 

On that day also, Jane received a letter from 
her brother Edward, in which he wrote that he 
had arrived in London, to receive the honor that 
the Queen had conferred upon him, and that he 
had been created the Earl of Hertford. 

Within the letter was enclosed another, ad- 
dressed: to the Lady Katharine Grey. 

As she read its contents her pale face flushed 
and grew pink; as in the old times, that seemed 
so long ago. She was now wondrously lovely. 
She had arrived at the age of early womanhood, 
326 



The Daughters of Suffolk 

and all her childish promises of physical beauty 
and grace, had matured into a form of matchless 
symmetry. As she stood by a window in the 
Royal Palace, looking out over the river that 
flowed beneath, she drew in her breath with a 
secret, almost bewildering, sense of unspeakable 
joy. 

It was here at last, her happiness! .... 

Below on the river, the soft lappings of the tiny 
waves against the bow of a boat, as a sturdy 
rower forced it forward with a steady stroke of 
oar; the loud laughter of the careless people, 
and their conversation as they went to and fro, 
attending to their various occupations, all these 
familiar sounds which heretofore had seemed 
but to mock her grief; all, all, now mingled 
with the joy in her heart, and changed the joy 
to rapture* 

Oh! it was good to be loved, to be alive! 

The sadness of her life, in which she had 
passed so many years, had now become a back- 
ground ; it was dark and gloomy, but, — of the 
past. 

Then her memory recalled her sister Jane, 
and the last letter that she had received from 

327 


The Daughters 


her; and the old struggle was renewed in her 
mind, between the good that was bad, and the 
bad that was good. 

‘‘Oh!” she said to herself, in mental despera- 
tion, “if Jane were only here to tell me what I 
ought to do.” 

Then she read Seymour’s letter over again, 
very slowly, the words burning deeply into her 
receptive mind: 

• • • “but, my beloved, although we can- 

not gain the Queen’s consent, nevertheless we 
shall be married soon.” • • • 

The words rang in her ears like the sweet 
sound of splashing fountains to a weary and 
thirsty traveller* Away with duty 1 Away with 
her obedience to the Queen! It was the voice 
of her beloved, calling to her through a long 
vista, through a vale of tears. • • • he 

might come for her any hour, at any moment! 

She shut her teeth, tightly, to keep her chatter- 
ing lips from proclaiming her happiness aloud. 
She wanted to sing, to laugh, to cry. 

In her hand she held the precious letter from 
the man she loved ; the man to whom she had 
given her childish heart, long ago. Through 
328 


of Suffolk 

all those terrible, solitary years, she had pressed 
his memory so closely to her tender heart, that 
it had grown there. It had become a part of her 
very existence. Now, it was no longer to be but 
a memory; it had become a substance, a reality, 
a creed, — three in one. She would see him; she 
would embrace him; she would love him. Then, 
come death, or whatever fate had in store for 
her, she would be content. 

These were the thoughts that occupied Kath- 
arine’s mind, as she gazed from the window of 
the Palace of Westminster. So absorbed was 
she in her thoughts, that Jane Seymour’s voice 
at her ear startled her. “The Queen goes to 
Eltham this morning to hunt,” she said, “ and,” 
she hesitated a moment, and looked keenly into 
her friend’s face, “my graceless brother has 
arrived.” 

Katharine blushed a deep red, and trembled. 
“So soon,” she stammered; and she turned her 
head, and appeared to gaze, indifferently, out 
of the window. 

Jane Seymour laughed aloud, and then, 
regretting her imprudence, she looked cautiously 
around, to see if others were observing them. 

329 


The Daughters 


“ Faith, you did it so well,’’ she said admir- 
ingly, “that you near deceived me.” 

There was a long whispered conversation 
between the friends; then they sauntered slowly 
from the apartments. . . . 

Had anyone been attracted by their move- 
ments, they would have seen the two young 
maids of honor leave the palace, by the stairs 
at the orchard, and then walk demurely along 
by the sands to the Earl of Hertford’s house in 
Chanon Row. Had they still been curiously 
inclined, they could also have seen the Lady 
Jane Seymour, quietly leaving the house by a 
small unfrequented doorway; they could have 
seen her hasten to a nearby chapel, where a 
priest was in waiting to perform the marriage 
ceremony. A few of the more persistent might 
have entered the chapel with the little wedding 
party; and they probably would have been asked 
to witness the ceremony that united Edward 
Seymour, Earl of Hertford and Katharine Grey, 
the second daughter of Suffolk. 

Here the story properly ends. Here I would 
willingly draw the veil of oblivion over the 

330 


of Suffolk 


lives of the united pair, and leave the reader 
to indulge in pleasant reverie over Katharine’s 
long deferred happiness. But, grim History 
records the fact that they were both immediately 
committed to the Tower. 

That terrible pile of stone, that has become 
saturated with the blood of so many men and 
women ; whose blackened walls have echoed and 
re-echoed with the loud cries and agonized whis- 
pers of so many breaking hearts ! That vaulted 
sepulchre, was Katharine’s home for seven 
dreary years. There, through the friendly aid 
of the keeper, she and her husband were often 
allowed to be together. There, she spent all 
the years of her married life. There, her chil- 
dren were born. There, she wrote the pathetic 
petition to Queen Elizabeth: 

‘‘I dare not presume, most gracious Sover- 
eign, to crave pardon for my disobedient and 
rash matching of myself, without your Highness’ 
consent. I only most humbly say unto your 
Highness, to continue your merciful nature 
towards me. I acknowledge myself a most 
unworthy creature, to feel so much of your 
gracious favor as I have done. My just-felt 

331 


The Daughters 


misery, and continual grief, doth teach me daily, 
more and more, the greatness of my fault, and 
your princely pity increaseth my sorrow, that I 
have so forgotten my duty towards your Majesty, 
this is my great torment of mind. May it there- 
fore please your excellent Majesty to permit me 
to be a most lowly suitor unto your Highness, to 
extend towards my misearble state your Majes- 
tie’s further favor and accustomed mercy. 

Which upon my knees, in all humble wise, I 
crave with my daily prayers to God, that he 
may long continue and preserve your Majesty’s 
reign over us.” 

The so called “Virgin Queen,” whose amours 
fill the pages of history, could not forgive these 
true lovers. It may be that she was afraid to 
grant liberty to one who had so strong a claim 
to the throne ; there were many who thought 
that Katharine’s title was as good if not better 
than Elizabeth’s ; be that as it may, the Queen 
steadily refused all entreaties both of the prison- 
ers and of their many influential friends; whose 
petitions only seemed to increase her severity. 

She issued strict orders to have Katharine 
and her husband confined in separate parts of 
332 


THE TOWER OF LONDON 









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This last stroke of adversity was the final 
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One cold, blustry, day in January, poor, 
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